Stones and Slab
by Kelly1
Summary: All avalanche events, regardless of type, can be broken down into three distinctive components: the Sheer, the Slide, and the Runout. B.O.M. ensemble – team fic. Dominic POV. Contains some M/M, F/F Pietro/Dominic, Domino/Rogue, Pietro/Mortimer
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**Stones and Slab  
**Part:** 1/4  
**Word count:** 6911  
** Rating/Warnings:** High T for language, implied adult situations. Contains M/M, F/F.  
**Characters:** B.O.M. ensemble – team fic. Dominic POV.  
** Pairings:** Pietro/Dominic, implied one-sided Domino/Rogue, and Mortimer/Pietro if you squint a little.  
** Disclaimer:** Marvel's, not mine. :: le sigh ::

A/N 1: Though _Stones and Slab_ lives in the same neighbourhood as the rest of my non-humour BOM stuff, please don't be discouraged if you haven't read any of my other fics. It should (hopefully) stand on its own, though there may be a non-plot related point or six that will make you go "Heeeeeey, I don't remember that being canon." (If you're going to be discouraged over anything, it should be the text bludgeon of a 23000+ word count. Or the fact that it's written from the perspective of a minor character that noboby probably actively likes but me. _Or_ the fact that it's written _by_ me, and not someone with an actual talent for this sort of thing...)  
A/N 2: Dominic's opinions are not necessarily my opinions. O_o Also Present=Episode 8.

Thanks: To thelostmaximoff who reminded me that chapters exist for a reason, and that I too can use them XD.

**Stones and Slab – Chapter One**

_All avalanche events, regardless of type, can be broken down into three distinctive components: The Sheer—wherein the fragile top layer of snow first breaks away from the base, The Slide—wherein the loosed debris gains momentum, and The Runout—wherein the avalanche comes to rest._—Extreme Earth , Discovery Chanel

**Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean**

The dull, familiar throb in Dominic's head comes first, and on its heels is the cold—testicle shrivelling and lung searing. His blood is lukewarm coffee sludge, left on the burner overnight, thick and black and acrid in his veins. An eternity of staring at the dawn-lit clouds (why, exactly, was he laying on his back again?) passes before he remembers the flash of red. _'Fucking Cyclops.'_

Briefly, Dominic is tempted, seduced by the ache in his bones. He is all too aware that he is thirty-three now, that he favours his right shoulder from a tendon that didn't quite heal properly, that his knees crack when he squats, that he is on the downward slope, steepening with each of these encounters, of his prime. No one will fault him if, just this once, he remains down. The Brotherhood will be fine without him; the X-Men are not the MRD and they will not kill any of them. _Not on purpose._ Not over this. Even Pietro, ('Stubborn, impossible asshole,' Dominic thinks, not without affection) will likely concede long before it ever reaches that point.

As far as Dominic is concerned, the X-Men can have the exploding man _and_ their former teammate. Both are more trouble than they are worth. Of course, this is only Dominic's view, which, within the hierarchy of the Brotherhood, means relatively little. For Pietro, Nitro brings yet another futile hope. (His persistence in pursuing the approval he will never receive is both admirable and exasperating.) Rogue is far too important to Neena. Dominic doesn't trust the girl but has said nothing since her first day. Pietro knows his reservations about her, Neena doesn't want to hear them and, as always, Dominic's opinion is politely listened to and then completely disregarded by the two of them.

Quicksilver and Domino are in charge and have always been in charge; it's a duumvirate that's as old as the inception of the Brotherhood. (Pietro may be the de facto leader, but both of their personalities are too strong to completely concede to one another.) This suits Dominic fine. He has never had any desire for power, even from the beginning. He keeps his head down, says his piece, squares his shoulders, and pulls his weight. Some people are leaders and others are workers; even before the Brotherhood, Dominic has always been the latter.

A sharp pulse behind his eyes extinguishes the rational thought in his brain for several seconds, dousing everything but _'Shock!'_ and _'Pain!'_ into retreat. It takes Neena's voice, as harsh as the cold wind sheering off the ocean and cutting Dominic to the bone, to remind him of his obligations. "Get out here and help us, Toad!"

"Okay, trust me, our chances of winning are much higher if I'm not involved." Toynbee always has an excuse. (He is neither a worker nor a leader, and he has no place on this team. But again, that is just Dominic's opinion, and the fact that Mortimer is back with the Brotherhood is a testament to how little that really means.)

Dominic ignores his instincts and manages to stand on the second try. (Better than usual.) The world rights itself uneasily, a round peg in a square hole, adequate for now.

**Sheer, December 2005, New Jersey**

"Man, did you see the look on Moss' face?" Pietro is laughing, unlocking the door to the shithole apartment above the Chinese food restaurant that is serving as the base of operations for the Brotherhood. The cramped two-bedroom is far too small for the three of them. Dominic pulled the short straw and sleeps permanently on the pullout couch in the tiny living room. Pietro has offered more than once to share his bed, but Dominic is unsure if he is serious and, if he is, if he really wants that. It's been nearly a year since Helen. His head hurts too much to think about this today and he pushes it aside.

"No," Neena strolls in and plops herself on the edge of Dominic's sofa bed, never made, propping her feet up on the coffee table and unzipping her boots. She leans back into the pillows and turns on the television, bathing the room in the blue flicker of two a.m. infomercials. Dominic was hoping to lie down. He says nothing. "I was a little too busy trying to avoid the pieces of ceiling falling on me." She quirks her lips. "Not all of us are as thick headed as Petrakis is. I bet he isn't even going to need that fancy helmet you ordered for him."

It's a common joke of theirs, a gentle and non-malicious bait, but Dominic is in no mood to retaliate or participate in their barb trading tonight. He sits down heavily in the well worn armchair; the stuffing is far too old to actually be comfortable. His English is foggy and escaping him, coming too slow. He wouldn't be able to keep up. It's because it's late, because he's tired. Dominic barely even remembers the ride home. He casually rakes a hand through his hair, carefully feeling the knot of a scab already forming where a piece of falling concrete had hit him during one of his tremors and briefly knocked him out. He was fairly certain, amidst the melee, that his teammates had not noticed. Perhaps the helmet wasn't a bad idea.

Pietro pauses for a moment, flipping through the takeout menus normally pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. When Dominic fails to respond, he takes up the mantle himself. It's a game both he and Neena seem to enjoy; Dominic has never really cared for it. "Geez Thurman, all this talk of thick heads and helmets? It sounds like someone wants to Freudian slip her way between the sheets of the sofa bed tonight." Pietro cocks an eyebrow, his smile wide and dangerous, his voice as smooth and golden as honey. The entire effect is enough to make Dominic's spine curve, to briefly invoke the familiar hot tightness, spreading low and fast and down from his abdomen. "You know, if Dom isn't willing..."

Neena seems immune to it; she even laughs "Don't worry Maximoff, if I ever have a complete lapse of good judgement, I know you're the closest available _prick._"

Pietro snorts in spite of himself. "Flatterer. And yet, this doesn't help me tonight. You know, Dom, if Neena isn't willing...." Another chuckle. Pietro waves the menu leaflet at them, already flipping open his cell phone. "Mike's'll still be open for the after-bar crowd. Anybody else want anything?" He holds up his finger before they can respond. Dominic is used to Pietro's odd, disjointed staccato communication by now. "Hi. Yes, I'd like to place an order for pick up, please...Peter Maxwell... Six California grilled chicken wraps with extra guacamole, a family order of sweet potato fries, and uuuuuh-a vanilla coke...." Dominic knows this is all for Pietro; he eats an unfathomable amount. Just the thought of food is making Dominic feel ill at the moment. "No, can I also get a—"

"Large Greek salad with chicken," Domino calls over her shoulder without getting up from the sofa. They have the menus memorized by now. "Easy on the feta and olives, and dressing on the side."

Pietro relays her order into the phone and then looks at Dominic expectantly. Dominic shakes his head, which is a mistake. Purple stars burst across his vision and he quickly turns back in the direction of the TV. The sudden movement has made the pain sharpen.

"Ten minutes. I'll leave in nine," Pietro announces to the room, distributing three bottles of beer from their reserve in the refrigerator. (Beer, condiments, leftover takeout in various stages of moulding, a box of baking soda—the glamorous life of criminals.) Dominic leaves his on the coffee table, watching the condensation begin to form on the brown glass. The apartment is radiator heated, and either freezing or sweltering. They have learned that a median can never be struck, and tonight, it is the latter. The heat makes him drowsy. Pietro joins Neena on the couch, flicking through channels so fast that Dominic has to close his eyes. "Really, Thurman? _Large? **Greek?**_ If you think I'm above making the obvious 'salad-tossing' jokes, I'm afraid you are sorely mistaken."

Dominic knows he should not be this tired. Most of their work is best carried out under the cover of darkness and the Brotherhood have adjusted their sleeping schedules accordingly. He's only been awake for a few hours.

"Didn't even cross my mind." Dominic hears two caps being pried off, the heady fsssts of carbonation escaping. "That's more _your_ domain. I can't blame you, though; being an ass yourself, I can see why your limited focus would be preoccupied with that area."

They are just getting started; they will be at this all night. It's too much. Dominic is overwhelmed by their voices. "I am going to take a nap." Behind his eyelids, the strobing of the changing channels stops.

Dominic deems it safe to look again. Pietro is standing and smoothing the sheets around the edges of the sofa bed, pulling them taut under Neena, who is reluctantly sitting up. Pietro frowns, scrutinizing some minute wrinkle in the duvet that Dominic will never see. "Headache?"

"Yes." It is not unprecedented; migraines were one of the drawbacks of Dominic's mutation. (And he hated to admit it when he got one, hated conceding his inability to use his powers properly. He wouldn't tell them unless it was absolutely necessary.) This feels different somehow though, a subtlety of sensations he lacks the English vocabulary to express properly.

They cluck sympathetically and mobilize, Neena replacing his beer with a glass of room temperature tap water and Pietro offering up two tablets of Advil from the first aid kit. Dominic gladly downs both, turning off the television and sprawling on top of the covers. The conversation is muted from the kitchenette as Pietro and Neena take up a game of Gin Rummy on the rickety table.

Dominic knows he should brush his teeth, change out of his uniform, shower, but now that his head is on the pillow there is very little he wants to do other than sleep. His body fights him. Everything is spinning behind his eyes and he needs to hang his leg out, planting a foot firmly on the floor, to make it stop. He cringes with every sharp flick of card being dealt in the kitchen; Pietro's quiet peal of laughter slingshots up his spine and explodes painfully into the back of his brain.

When Pietro leaves to pick up the food, Dominic forces himself into the bathroom. He manages, he hopes, to not stumble obviously. Someone has rigged the apartment to lurch and shudder and drop like a funhouse; someone has rewired his limbs and forgotten to give him the instruction manual. He sits down hard on the toilet, head between his knees. Deep breaths. It passes. A shower is out of the question; he does not need to crack open his head twice in one night. He chuckles to himself, light headed. _Especially naked._

Still seated, Dominic removes his outer armour and hangs it over the edge of the bathtub, ignoring the rust-coloured spots staining the neckplate. Pissing takes a monumental effort, leaning almost the entirety of his weight against the cool wall and then, seconds later, on his knees heaving the glass of water and the Advils and stomach acid into the toilet. It foams and swirls on the surface of the chemical green water. He flushes it down, caustic smelling blue rushing in from the edges of the bowl, washing away the incriminating evidence. They have another facility break tomorrow night. Dominic does not want to be put on medical restriction again; Pietro has already made him skip one raid this month because of his migraines.

This isn't the same and Dominic knows it. He gropes for the edge of the counter and pulls himself up. It takes far more effort than it should, drunk and clumsy. Dominic places a facecloth in the sink and turns on the tap. It is only then that he inspects himself in the mirror. _Shit._ One of his pupils is larger than the other. Dominic knows it's a sign of concussion from his years on the high school football team. (He hated when the coach would bench him.)

"You okay in there?" Neena's knock and voice are hesitant, but to Dominic it sounds as though she is yelling, pounding, driving an ice pick behind his eyes. He grips the edge of the counter harder, until his knuckles turn white.

Dominic simply needs a good sleep, and to be more careful. He has had concussions before. He can deal with this. Vomiting has already dissipated some of his dizziness. Tiny droplets of water splash up from the basin, catching on his cheeks and in his beard. Dominic clenches his teeth, closes his eyes, and tempers his reply. "Yes, I am fine."

**Slide, 8 months ago, New York**

As he pads quietly down the hallway, Dominic is surprised to find the living room light on, and even more surprised to hear Pietro's voice. "—think you'll like it here, kid." He is never up this early. Perhaps he didn't sleep at all last night. Dominic curses to himself. He was hoping to make it to his appointment and back before anyone noticed his absence.

Dominic squints as he gets closer, finding even the single bulb of the table lamp to be unbearably bright. He calmly tells the panic in his brain that it is just his eyes adjusting. 'No sense worrying about it until we know something for certain.' That is what she told him, false reassurance. 'We.' Like they were a team.

"Morning, Dom." Pietro smiles lazily at him from the sofa as Dominic enters the room. His eyes flick quickly, inventorying Dominic's appearance, taking in the non-descript khakis, the button-up shirt, the sensible brown leather shoes. "Dockers?" The smile shifts into a smirk. "You got an interview for a desk job you want to tell me about?"

The comment stings, though whether Pietro intends it to is uncertain. "After my performance last week, perhaps I should look into a different profession, yes?" It had been a cut and dry mission: infiltrate the filing archives of the Senator's office, set some charges, and, in the words of Fred, 'get the hell out of Dodge.' Dominic had been standing at the south wall, trying to remember where exactly he was supposed to place the charge, (Pietro had gone over it half a dozen times in the briefing, but it had slipped from him momentarily, things kept slipping on Dominic more often these days,) when the security guard had snuck up behind him and jammed the butt of his gun into the back of Dominic's neck. They were halfway home before Dominic had regained consciousness.

"You're too hard on yourself." Pietro frowns. "Could've happened to any of us." Except it hadn't. It had happened to Dominic. It always happened to Dominic. Neena was lucky enough to avoid it, Pietro fast enough, Fred nearly invulnerable. Dominic bore the brunt of the Brotherhood injuries and kept them to himself, as much as he could. No one wanted to hear him complain. "Lucky you've got that thick skull of yours."

It's a weak joke at best, an old favourite, a remnant of the past, but a burst of nervous laughter alerts Dominic to the presence of a third person in the room. Sloppy. No wonder the security guard had gotten the better of him. The boy is thin and jittery, barely out of his teens, as green as the armchair he is occupying. Everything about him—the nerves, the obvious fear, the tremble—screams 'prisoner,' and it strikes Dominic as odd that Pietro has brought him to their home. They generally used an abandoned warehouse by the docks for this purpose. "Who is this?" Dominic directs the question to Pietro, not offering the courtesy of speaking to their visitor directly. It was better to not become familiar.

The man squirms a little in his seat, pushing farther back into the cushion as though hoping to disappear completely. "Uh hi...um... I'm Mortimer Toynbee."

Dominic stares at his offered hand, lip curled, until he retracts it. "What is he doing here?"

"Easy, Dom." Pietro laughs, but there is a nervous, hesitant edge to it that doesn't go unnoticed by Dominic. "Mortimer's going to be joining the team. I figured it might help, you know? Divide the work, make things a bit easier on all of us..."

Hot shame bursts in Dominic's chest; this is because he failed. Pietro is punishing him, illustrating Dominic's weakness in this frail, skittish man. He resents Mortimer immediately. Dominic barks at him, making him startle, "What is it that you do?"

Mortimer looks at Pietro, a combination of trust and fear (and something else, affection? attraction? Dominic seethes.) Pietro nods. Mortimer's voice seems too small for the room. "Uhh...I'm sort of like a toad, I guess? I mean, well, my legs are really strong, so I can jump pretty high, um... and I've got this really long tongue and I can spit this weird slimy shit that's kind of sticky...but it's sorta useless....like most of my powers." He trails off. Mortimer is looking down at his hands, kneading and lacing his fingers together. _Useless._ He brightens momentarily. "Oh! I'm really good at fixing things, too."

That is Dominic's domain. (His fingers dig in to the solid wood frame beneath the upholstering of the sofa.) The prospect of obsolescence makes his stomach tighten, a threat from a lifetime ago, the modern mechanic's curse. Why fix an old car when you could simply lease something new? (Shiny, younger, more reliable.) "I did not realize our team was looking for a _pet_, Pietro."

Mortimer flinches, not lifting his eyes from his lap.

"Dominic..." Pietro's tone is gently chiding, amused. (He rolls his eyes; there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.)

Dominic is far from amused this morning. "I would have suggested a kitten. It would perhaps be more intimidating to our enemies than what you have chosen, hmm?"

The change is instant. Dominic knows he could have stood there and insulted Mortimer all day and Pietro would have done nothing (hell, he probably would have joined in); it is in criticizing Pietro's leadership choices that he has raised his ire. Pietro's lips press together in a thin white line, his nostrils flare. "Avalanche. Enough."

It is far too easy to pick at the scab of Pietro's inadequacies. Dominic is perversely pleased with himself, ashamed at himself. He relinquishes his grip on the furniture and begins walking toward the door; he needs to leave before he says something he regrets. (Something half-formed and acidic that throbs in the off-time of his headache. [Something about Magneto.])

Standing in the hallway, door shutting behind him with an anti-climactic click, Dominic is honestly surprised that Pietro makes no move to stop him.

**Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean**

Dominic removes his helmet, inspecting it. The weight of it is reassuring in his large palms. It absorbed the worst of the impact. A hairline crack spiders the radius from the base up to the crown. Dominic is aware of each pump of his heart in his temples, behind his eyes. He calms the panic that begins to rise in his chest. He was only jostled; it is a headache, not a concussion. Nothing to worry about. He breathes out between clenched teeth, runs his thumb along the fissure in the high density plastic and repeats it to himself. Nothing to worry about. (A voice interrupting his mantra: "You can't continue like this, Jon.")

Pietro paces in front of the team, the grey in-flight blanket trailing behind him. (It sits on his shoulders like a misshapen cape and Dominic cannot help but think that he looks like a counterfeit version of his father. He is much too severe at the moment.) Dominic worries idly about the lasting effects of being encased in ice on him. Two hundred feet away, the X-Men politely ignore the Brotherhood as they fix their own jet engines.

"Is everyone okay?" Pietro's tone is serious and businesslike, and it clashes with the haphazard crescent the Brotherhood is standing in, the motley approximation of formation. Pietro appreciates the nature of their work and the implicit danger; Dominic sometimes wishes he were less thorough. He used to be. It is Dominic's fault that he is no longer so lax.

Fred speaks up first, shrugging non-committally. "I was probably _more_ okay before I was struck by lightning."

Pietro smiles at that, shakes his head, relaxes his fearless leader facade. (Becomes Pietro, not Quicksilver. [Not a photocopy of Magneto.]) "Dually noted Blob. Everybody else?"

Neena has the plane's meagre first aid kit spread across the ice next to Psylocke, frowning at it as though that will make it contain something other than the requisite gauze and medical tape. Dominic spies a travel-sized bottle of Advil and hopes it is not empty. Domino tilts her head sideways, smiles at Pietro in that wry, hard way that only she can. "I'd say your telepath is less okay and more unconscious."

"She's probably fine though, huh?"

Neena raises her hands uselessly in front of her. "Fucked if I know, I've never been mind-raped by a telepath." She glances across the ice, biting her bottom lip. "Though if I was going to be, Emma Frost is definitely top of my list. Or at the very least tied with Jean Grey."

Rogue giggles nervously at this, forced and uncomfortable and a half a second behind the other Brotherhood members. (Fred's booming chortle is loud enough to make the X-Men stare at them.) The fact that she belongs on the other side of this temporary island is painfully obvious to Dominic. He rolls his helmet in his hands, eyes down. It is not the time to bring this up again. (Just a headache, nothing to worry about.)

"Unrequited and insatiable libido aside, you're fine though, yes Domino?" Pietro proceeds down the line when she flips him the bird. "Charming. Rogue?" Dominic assumes the girl nods (isn't watching, is composing his answer) because Pietro moves on. "Avalanche?"

It's the fact that Pietro's voice softens a fraction, that he touches Dominic just above the elbow (two firm pats, like a sports coach, as close to a public display as they usually got, especially when they weren't in civvies,) that makes it difficult to look him in the eye. "I am fine."

Pietro pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. The lines in his forehead deepen. His hand lingers on Dominic's arm. "You sure?" He looks up at Dominic's metal silhouette, embossed into the side of the plane. "You got hit pretty hard." Pietro has dropped his voice; he is close enough to kiss Dominic. The whole thing is uncomfortably, terribly intimate. ("You can't continue like this, Jon.") Dominic's stomach twists.

He wants to take Pietro aside then, retreat into the stolen, broken shell of the plane and tell him everything for once... Hell, Freddy and Neena too. They deserved to know. But not Mortimer and not Rogue. They are not a part of the Brotherhood, not really. He hates them for being witnesses to even this. "I am fine." He forces himself to look at Pietro and smile, easy and casual. (He hopes it is easy and casual—convincing.) "My helmet however..." He holds out the cracked semi-sphere, taking a step backwards to do so, increasing the distance between them. Pietro's outstretched hand falls limply back to his side and, for one moment, Dominic swears Pietro can see through this.

"Fuck your helmet, Petrakis. I've got two AR-15's that are about as useful to me as popsicles now thanks to Pryde. Our budget's going to that first." Neena grins at them. "You've got your thick skull; you'll be fine."

Pietro rolls his eyes at the tired joke, commandeering Dominic's helmet, tossing it up in the air and catching it gracefully. "Last time I checked, Domino, I was in charge of budget allocation." The opportunity has passed, they slip easily back into old patterns, and Dominic is equal parts relieved and disappointed. It's easier this way. "So, helmet first. You have enough guns as it is."

"But I liked _those_ guns." Neena narrows her eyes at Dominic playfully, faux-perturbed. "This is blatant favouritism, you know."

"Damn straight," Pietro laughs, "You start putting out, maybe we'll talk."

Domino pulls a face, comic and over-exaggerated in disgust. "Ugh, I have to put out _and_ talk to you? No thanks. I'll just wait. Petrakis is a braver soul than I; he deserves the kickbacks for putting up with you."

"As always, Thurman, your perception of me is astoundingly flattering." With a flick of his wrist, Pietro tosses the helmet at her, which she ducks easily. It skitters across the ice and splits in two. "_Someone's_ trying to butter me up for a raise this year, aren't they?"

"Fuck, Maximoff, I don't need to know what the two of you do in your spare time. And with our poor innocent butter? You stop misusing cooking products and maybe we'd have enough for a new helmet _and_ my guns."

Pietro opens his mouth, pauses briefly, closes it, and exhales through his nose. "Anyway, moving on." The two of them could bait each other for hours; five years and Dominic still does not fully understand their strange antagonistic friendship. Just because Pietro pauses it now doesn't mean they won't start it right back up on the flight home. "Dom, can you take a look and see if our engines are still operational or if we're—"

"I'm okay too, Pietro." Mortimer is sitting on the steps of the plane, just outside of their small semi-circle, his voice barely audible and shaking. _Pathetic._

Pietro frowns at being interrupted. "Yes, well..."

Dominic can feel the bile rise in his throat, vitriol spilling out before he can stop himself. "It is easy to remain unharmed when you are hiding, is it not?" (_'Undue rage reactions, inappropriate and explosive behaviour.'_ He hates this, hates second guessing everything as an indicator now. He has a right to be angry, dammit! Mortimer shouldn't even be here anymore.) That's the real problem; Dominic was so close to convincing Pietro that Mortimer wasn't needed, _had_ convinced him, (had damn near killed himself the last eight months to convince him,) and yet somehow Toynbee still managed to worm his way back onto the team. "We should have left you with the MRD. You would be safe behind bars and just as useful to us."

There was a time when Toynbee would have sat there, turned his face away, and had the decency to look ashamed at his performance. (He still did that with Neena, with Fred, with Pietro.) With Dominic, he stands, balls his fists. "Hey, I'm the reason we got Nitro."

"Oh yes," Dominic motions agitatedly at the X-Men, at the ruined plane, (at Psylocke, unconscious on the ground, at Pietro, still shivering despite the blanket, at his own shattered helmet [_Headache, not a concussion. **Not a concussion.**_] Mortimer is nothing but a liability to all of their safety.) "That has worked out well for us, has it not?"

"That's not my fault." His voice raises, has an edge of hysteria in it as Dominic closes the distance between them. "Man, can't you ever cut me a break!"

"A break! All you get are breaks, Toynbee!" Dominic is yelling, too close and too loud and right now he doesn't care. He has Mortimer by the front of the shirt. "You are allowed to do nothing while the rest of us—"

"Avalanche." Pietro appears at his side with a gust and places a firm hand on Dominic's shoulder. (Dominic is going to be reprimanded while Mortimer doesn't receive so much as a word for staying out of the battle. The injustice of it nearly makes Dominic push this, ignore the consequences. Pietro isn't using enough force to actually hold Dominic back.) "This is not the time." Pietro's words freeze him like a cold shower; he drops Mortimer in a heap on the ground. It is never the time. ("You can't continue like this, Jon.") (Just a headache, nothing to worry about.) "Go check the engines and cool off."

Still within earshot, Dominic punches a dent in the plane when Pietro asks Mortimer if he's okay.

**Sheer, December 2005, New Jersey**

There are hands on Dominic's face, light being shined into his eyes, and he needs to blink but he can't because they are being held open. They water. His head throbs. His shirt is damp and cold. He attempts to lift his hands to protect himself; he tries to protest. His fingers twitch; his groan sounds desperate and wretched.

Then he's allowed to close his eyes, to blink, and Neena shifts into view, at the wrong angle and blurry, as the water runs down his tear ducts, across the bridge of his nose, and onto the floor. He's laying on his back, he realizes, head turned to the side and legs propped up with a rolled towel. His hands and feet needle sharply as the feeling begins to return.

"He-ey, there we go. You had me worried for a second." Domino's expression is concerned and relieved at the same time. "Don't try to get up, okay? You're bleeding a bit; I think you hit your head."

Dominic forces himself to sit up. (At least part of the way; he ends up jack-knifing in half, knees bent and head down between them. Neena puts a hand on his shoulder with a disapproving tsk.) He stares at the water-covered tile. The sink has overflowed; it always drains too slowly and they never bother to tell the landlord. Dominic can hear the tap still running. The tile is too bright and too sharp, the water splashing down too muffled. Everything is just slightly off. "It is alright. It was earlier in the evening." Dominic does not want another week of medical restriction. The look he gives Neena is plaintive. "Please do not tell Pietro."

"Don't tell Pietro what? That I'm devilishly handsome? It's okay, I already know." Pietro is standing at the bathroom door, still wearing his coat, holding a takeout bag. Dominic sits up straighter by leaning back on the sink cabinets and anchoring his feet against the tub. Pietro surveys the bathroom with a smirk. "Look, if you kids wanted a Slip 'n Slide, all you had to do was ask. I don't think Mr. Xióng is going to be particularly pleased with us about this." He steps delicately around one of the larger puddles, stretching to turn off the sink. "Seriously though, what the fuck are you two up to in here?"

Dominic glances hopefully at Neena. She looks back at him, straight in the eye, serious and unflinching. "Dominic passed out. He has a concussion and needs to go to the hospital."

_Traitor._

"Whoa, let's back up the hospital train for a minute," cautions Pietro. The Brotherhood got injured (bullet grazes, lacerations from glass, broken fingers, dislocated joints...little things) on an almost alarmingly regular basis. If it was first aid, they handled it themselves. The three of them were all getting particularly good at sutures. They needed to keep a low profile and doctors had an annoying tendency to ask too many questions. A hospital visit was reserved for life or death.

And this was only a concussion. "I am fine."

Pietro shrugs. "The man says he's fine, Thurman."

Neena's sigh is long-suffering as she stands to face Pietro. "You know, that was exactly my thought when I heard the giant fucking thump from the other side of the bathroom door. 'Dominic sure sounds like he's doing _fine_ in there.'"

Dominic could do without the two bodies hovering over him now; his headache has returned with a vengeance. "It is nothing."

"Let's take a look," Pietro says, with all the air of indulging Neena. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, take-out balanced precariously beside him, one leg on either side of Dominic's. He tips Dominic's chin up in his hand; his skin is still cold from being outside. Dominic tells himself that it is just the temperature of Pietro's touch that sends the shiver down his spine. Pietro frowns. "Shit."

Neena smiles smugly. "See?"

"Okay, fine. Brava, Dr. Thurman." Pietro lets Dominic's chin drop as he applauds sarcastically. "But do we really need to go to the ER? You'll probably be okay after a good sleep and a week off, huh Dom?"

The 'week-off' condition grates, but Dominic was expecting as much. There is another sharp pulse of pain behind his eyes. He is looking forward to the sleep, though. "Yes, I do not need to see a doctor."

"Nu-uh, you lost your vote when you lost consciousness, Petrakis." Neena is tapping her toe, sock squishing wetly on the tile, the same look of hard determination she got on her face whenever they passed an anti-mutant rally. "Head trauma can be dangerous." Pietro is stone-walling her appeal to see if she will back down on her own. The only person who could talk her out of one of these moods was herself. If they tried to intervene, more often than not it would escalate to gun point. "I mean, yes, generally it's nothing, but it _can_ be serious. And maybe I'm being a bit... No, fuck it, I have a feeling. Just humour me on this, Maximoff. If I'm wrong, you can lord it over me until the end of my days like you so delight in doing." Her arms are crossed uncompromisingly.

Pietro looks mournfully at his bag of takeout and stands, sighing. "I relish the opportunity, Thurman." He gives Dominic a brief apologetic look. "Everyone get on their civvies. I'll pull the Jeep around and meet you downstairs." He is gone and back before Dominic stands fully upright. "And I'm bringing my food."

**Slide, 8 months ago, New York**

Dominic climbs the subway stairs, swapping the smell of stale urine for the smell of car exhaust. The station is only a block from his destination; he still passes three newsstands and two coffee shops along the way. Dominic would kill right now for a large black with sugar and a pack of Marlboros. He settles for a copy of the Times (he'll read the Sports section on the way back, save the rest to be divided amongst Pietro and Neena when he returns) and a pack of gum. The cold tang of mint is not nearly as satisfying as tobacco, but smoking has been making him light-headed lately, and caffeine always makes his migraines worse.

Checking quickly behind him (not because he suspects he is being followed, simply out of force of habit,) Dominic cuts into the alley between two buildings. The non-descript metal door is unlocked when he tries it, and he makes his way along the narrow hall until he reaches the correct office.

The medical assistant meets his eye when he enters, putting her hand over her mouth as she chews a piece of the muffin which sits on the desk in front of her. She waves embarrassedly, and swallows. "Sorry. Breakfast." She's young, still carrying the last of her baby fat or her freshman fifteen, probably right out of college and full of ideals. Her smile is bright and wide.

"It is alright." Dominic hangs his coat on the rack behind the door, familiar with the layout of the waiting area from his visit last week. "Please finish."

"No, no, don't be silly, it's fine." She stands and plucks a file and a clipboard from a neat stack on the shelf behind her. "I always just eat between our patients." Her laugh comes easily. "Which means I'll probably be taking my last bite of this right before lunchtime. Mr. Bloom, right?" Jon Bloom is one of Dominic's more concrete aliases—passport, birth certificate, social security number, driver's licence. She doesn't wait for an answer, motioning for Dominic to follow. Her nametag reads 'Karen' and Dominic struggles to remember if she was there the week before. "We'll get you set up in room number one and I'll let Dr. Halloran know you're here."

"Thank you." The paper covering the examination table crinkles as Dominic sits down, the vinyl squeaks. He feels awkward and exposed.

She slides the file into a rack on the front of the door and hands the clipboard to Dominic, full of nervous efficiency. "I'll just get you to fill these forms out—don't worry, there's a lot less than last time, this is just billing information for this visit—and... oh shoot, you need a pen." Karen eventually retrieves one from the breast pocket of her bubblegum pink scrubs. "Sorry Mr. Bloom. First patient of the day; I'm always a little scattered in the morning. You know how it is."

"Yes," Dominic agrees, even though he doesn't. (It has been years since he has worked a normal job.) "Mondays."

"I know, right?" Karen smiles at him, and then throws up her hands, flustered. "See, I almost just left without taking your temperature." She's apologetic. "I know it seems silly but its policy. Heck, you could be renewing a prescription and I'd have to check it."

"It is alright." Dominic hunches his shoulders so she can reach his ear.

"Thanks." Up close, she smells like Ivory soap and baby powder deodorant; he only knows that because it was Helen's scent. They are nothing alike (Karen is all soft curves and openness, Helen was always acute angles and obtuse responses) but the memory sucker punches him in the stomach and leaves him reeling all the same. The last time Dominic went through this, Helen was here with him. This time she's not.

"See, you're a superstar, 98.6 right on the dot." Dominic had considered asking Pietro to come, dismissed the idea outright almost as soon as he'd had it. Pietro hated the subway and waiting rooms and getting up early. (But it was more than that.) Karen is biting her bottom lip in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he smiles almost successfully. "I am fine. Sorry." They would not have called him in today to review his results unless something was wrong. Pietro is tied to too much, not just Dominic's personal life but also his career (if what he did with the Brotherhood could be called that... his livelihood, at the very least.) Dominic doesn't want to think about what this could mean for his position on the Brotherhood, and he doesn't want to drag Pietro into a situation where he has to make a choice between 'Avalanche' and 'Dominic.'

"It's alright, Mr. Bloom. Dr. Halloran will be with you in just a minute." Her smile is not as bright, tarnished and a bit sad, as she pulls the door closed behind her. In the absence of her idle chatter, the room seems cold and imposing: the white walls, the bright fluorescents, the faint smell of antiseptic, the sterility. Dominic focuses on the forms.

"Treat as already dead." Neena's voice comes back to him from years ago, one of the many mutant rights discussions they had over cigarettes on the rooftop. She always did most of the talking; Dominic always did most of the smoking. "It's something they label critical cases in Emerg., right? Mostly heart attacks or burn victims, since the fatality rates are so high. The doctors are trained to tell themselves that the patient is already dead when they come in, so, if they can't resuscitate them, it's.... It's a coping mechanism, I guess, so they can deal with loosing the patient. But now, because some powers make conventional treatments useless and they're never really sure how a mutant's powers are going to affect things, they treat every mutant as DOA no matter what. Broken bone, hypothermia, hell a _paper cut,_ and we're already as good as dead to them."

"But that makes some sense, does it not?" And Dominic, frowning and taking a drag. "If they had to operate on Fred, his skin would be too tough for scalpels, yes?"

"Yeah, but it's also an incredibly dangerous way of looking at things, Dom, and a real slippery slope. If we're already dead, they can choose not to waste resources on us. Even if we _could_ be saved, they have an excuse not to."

_Dammit._ Dominic looks at his form, scratches out "Petrakis" under surname, and writes "Bloom" above it. He hopes Karen doesn't scrutinize it too carefully; he's paying cash and that's suspicious enough. Filling out the rest of the page goes without incident, and Dominic is contemplating unfolding the Times when the door swings open.

* * *

A/N 3: And then Dominic read the paper anyway. THE END! Nah, I'm just kidding. You have my solemn author's word on this: that I will not leave this unfinished, and this has a specific working toward plot resolution ending. (That's generally the reason I write obscenely long one-shots, not chapter fics. I hate reading a fic I like and really get into and then realizing it was never finished, or the ending was cobbled on. This is finished, promise, I just need to proof read it to fill in the words I swear are there the first three times I read it over, but that I actually am just putting in in my head and [hopefully] catch on the fourth time through.) I'm going to post a new chapter every 2-4 days, depending on my editing time for the rest of this. Thank you for reading! 3 I hope you'll come back for the next chapter. And feedback is kind of swell if you're in the mood, though perhaps you want to reserve your judgement until the end of this and that's understandable too. That's why we're friends, fanfic reader; you're cool beans.


	2. Chapter 2

**Stones and Slab – Chapter Two**

**Sheer, December 2005, New Jersey**

Cooper University Hospital is only a ten minute drive from the apartment, even when they hit every red light on Haddon Street. Pietro colourfully curses each one out as the Jeep skids to a halt in half a foot of packing snow. He insists on driving, and does so with his knees while he eats. Domino makes one remark, which Pietro takes as an opportunity to remind her that they are doing this on her insistence and he will 'Turn this car around right now so help me God.' The accompanying facetious fist shake sends shredded lettuce flying in her direction. She resorts now to alternating between murderous glares at the driver's seat and concerned peeks into the back. For his part, Dominic is trying not to throw up or fall asleep or get blood on the interior.

There are two scanners as they enter the Emergency Room doors, cheerfully labelled with a sign that says 'For your protection and ours' and manned by a pot-bellied security guard. The first is a metal detector which they make through on the second try, after Pietro surrenders the keys and his watch into a grey plastic bin, (Dominic is surprised, he can count on one hand the times he has seen Neena unarmed,) the second chirps blithely to indicate that they possess the X-gene. The hospital is one of seven in the state that is classified as mutant-friendly. The security guard narrows his eyes at them, jerking his thumb aggressively to the left. "That desk." Like everything that is labelled mutant-friendly these days, mutant-tolerant is a more apt description; they won't be turned away, but there is very little friendliness involved.

Dominic thinks that the girl at the counter would be exceptionally pretty if her expression was not so dour. She wrinkles her nose as they approach. Pietro doesn't seem to mind in the least. "Hello gorgeous." He leans his elbow on the counter and smiles charmingly. (Or, at least, what Pietro assumes is charmingly. It's too effusive, insincere. He is more appealing when he is not trying so hard.) "And how are you doing this evening?"

"I'm okay." She eyes him suspiciously and pushes a clipboard over. "Fill out these forms while you're waiting. I'll take your name, and then the triage—"

Pietro hands the completed paperwork back to her before she finishes her sentence. "Oh, I'd say you're far more than _okay,_" he eyes her name tag, "Julie. And it's actually my friend Jon here that needs the whole 10cc's-stat treatment, so you should probably take down his name on your little list. But I definitely don't mind if you want to take mine for your personal records. It's Peter, and it is an absolute _pleasure_ to meet you." (Dominic doesn't have to look over at Neena to know how hard she is rolling her eyes right now.)

The smallest smile appears on the girl's lips. "If you could all take a seat in the mutie waiting room..."

Beside Dominic, Neena bristles, and this time he does look over. Her mouth is hard and set. (She has always found the term 'mutie' to be extremely derogatory.) "Oh good, did you hear that, Jon? _Our kind_ get our own room. This way we don't have to worry about contaminating any of the flat-scanners."

The expression of the girl sours again immediately. "Ma'am, if you don't like the way our hospital is run, may I suggest Genosha to you? There's an entire island full of doctors for you people." One of the reasons it was so difficult to find a mainland practitioner now was because of Magneto. Many mutant specialists were mutants themselves, and Pietro's father paid them out lavishly to leave their jobs and staff his medical centers instead.

"'Wow, segregation _and_ internment. How wonderfully progressive of you."

"Ma'am, I do not need you to take that tone."

"Oh, _I_ have a tone?" Neena's voice raises and she presses closer to the counter. Her hands flit to her sides, twitching over the place where her holsters should sit. Dominic knows she is still capable of inflicting quite a bit of damage even without her guns.

"Do you want me to call security and have you all removed, ma'am?"

"I would _love_ to see them tr—"

"Now, now, there's no need for that," interrupts Pietro, holding Neena back by the upper arm. "I am extremely sorry for this, Julie. I know you're just trying to do your job here, and I wouldn't blame you for a second if you _did_ call security on Bea for being _crazy_ and _unreasonable_ and _drawing a lot of unneeded attention to us._" Pietro looks pointedly at Neena. "But it's only because she's simply beside herself with worry about her husband, what with little Jon Jr. on the way. Really Beatrice, you shouldn't get yourself so worked up in your delicate state. Why don't you two lovebirds take a seat and your old pal Peter will take care of the rest with this charming young lady here? You won't make us leave, right Julie? With Bea in her condition and Jon hurt, I _will_ drive them to another hospital—that's why I had no problem rushing over in the middle of the night to help them in the first place, I was so concerned for the baby's well-being... especially in this awful snow—but we're already here and I would greatly appreciate it if you could find it in your heart to let us stay."

There is a tense moment wherein her hand still hovers above the phone. Then her face softens into an admiring smile. "You are _such_ a good friend."

"Yes, yes I am." Pietro sort of shoves Neena and Dominic toward the waiting area with a half wave, and leans further across the counter. "But I don't do it for the accolades, Julie. I'm just that kind of guy."

Pietro is beyond smug when he joins them several minutes later. "Well, at least this little field trip of yours won't be a total loss, Thurman; I got a number out of it."

Neena scowls at him. "I don't know why you'd want the number of a bigot anyway."

"I like to think of myself as an ambassador of sorts, building bridges and mending fences with my irresistible machismo."

Domino snorts. "Is 'irresistible machismo' some sort of code for 'delusional fabrications?' I've seen steers produce less bullshit than you just did back there, Maximoff. Dominic and I are _married?_ I mean, no offense, Dom, but what the fuck was that?"

"It's a lovely story, really." Pietro gestures airily. "We all met in high school and were the best of friends. We did everything together. Then one day, you two realized it was more than that. But was I jealous of your newfound closeness? Of course not, I'm bigger than that. I was the best man at your wedding. I gave a stirring speech; both mothers were moved to tears. And now, after years of trying, you have a wonderful little miracle inside of you, Bea." Domino smacks away Pietro's hand as he reaches over and touches her stomach. He laughs wickedly. "And I'm just thrilled about it. Of course, I do get lonely sometimes, but I keep it to myself. I don't want to burden you with my problems when you're both so happy. I only hope that someday I can find someone special to share the kind of perfect joy and love the two of you have together." He waves at Julie. She blushes, smiles, looks down at her paperwork. "Like possibly a certain vaguely prejudiced but hot brunette who falls for this kind of shit. We're 'totally going to talk over coffee' at the end of her shift. Apparently I 'have the soul of a poet.'"

"Fuck Maximoff, why must I always be torn between wanting to smack you and wanting to high five you?" Neena's sigh is resigned.

Pietro strokes his chin thoughtfully. "It's probably the mood swings. Do you want me to get you some pickles and peanut butter or something?"

"And yet somehow wanting to smack you always wins. Pregnant..._honestly_," she scoffs.

"Hey, I had to tell her something so we didn't get kicked out." Pietro shrugs. "Knocked-up, crazy, girl hormones basically give you free reign to be as batshit insane as you want, right?"

"Your keen understanding of how a woman's body works is both insightful and completely un-patronizing, Maximoff."

(Dominic is thankful for their petty bickering. Neither of them has noticed that he's balled his fingers into fists, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as another wave of nausea hits him.)

Pietro is unrepentant. "Plus I told her you're probably sensitive because she's obviously very fit and you're about to become grotesquely distended with baby weight. But don't worry; she said you _almost_ couldn't tell at all that you're showing."

"I swear to God, Pietro, you are going to be so happy we are already in a hospital because you are one word away from me putting _you_ in a 'delicate condition.'"

"Temper temper, Bea, think of the baby."

Pietro's impending and assured murder is momentarily interrupted when a weedy man in thick, black-framed glasses emerges from the triage area. He can't be any older than Pietro, twenty-three at the most. He looks as though he has perhaps wandered off a college campus and ended up here by mistake. "Jon Bloom?" The three of them stand. (Dominic, admittedly, a bit shakily. He's fairly certain Neena and Pietro don't notice that either.) The man smiles when he spots them. "If you folks just want to follow me..."

He leads them to a small room, cordoned off by curtains and cramped with medical equipment. Dominic takes a seat on the edge of the bed. "How's everyone doing tonight?" He works quickly, having already taken Dominic's temperature and beginning now to secure a blood pressure cuff around Dominic's arm.

"Fine," answers Dominic sharply. Perhaps, if he is dismissed here, Pietro will only put him on leave for a week. (And all he wants right now is to be at home in his own bed.)

Pietro and Neena echo, "Fine." The hostility in Neena's voice as she glares at Pietro is palpable.

"Uh, well, good. I'm glad everyone is so...fine." Dominic almost feels bad for the man. He shines a light into each of Dominic's eyes with a frown. "Well, I'm Dave, I'll be your triage nurse for the evening. Tonight's special is a glazed chicken in a lovely rosé sauce served with a side of—" he consults the forms, "probable concussion from traumatic impact." Dave laughs self-consciously. (He is the only one who does.) "Uh, sorry. I thought a bit of humour might have lightened things up a little in here."

"Yes, it might have," reflects Pietro smoothly.

Domino makes a face at Pietro. "Thank you Dave, that was very sweet of you."

Dominic can see the blush forming on the tips of Dave's ears. "Um—so let's get you checked out, Jon." He asks Dominic to answer a few simple questions: his age (28,) his birthday (November 16,) his zip code (08108.) He makes Dominic track the light with each eye, touch his finger to his nose, clench his jaw. He inspects Dominic's head. "Hrm, it seems you have a small gash here from the impact. What _did_ you hit your head on, anyway?"

Dominic hesitates. Somehow, 'MRD facility ceiling' seems a bit incriminating. "Uhh...."

"Don't be shy, Jon. These two, sometimes; you'd think being outed as mutants they wouldn't be so bashful about it. _I_ think they make an adorable couple." The smile Neena flashes Pietro is absolutely predatory. "Picture it, Dave, I'm sitting up watching the news and there is the loudest thump from the bathroom I have ever heard in my life. Mind you, these two can get pretty noisy some, well, _all_ of the time...and it _is_ all of the time—sometimes I swear I'm the roommate of rabbits with excellent taste in sconces. Didn't Jon slip in the shower while he and Peter were going at it and hit his head on the tap?" She throws an arm around Pietro's shoulder. "Of course, this one was just frantic. You should have heard the shriek."

"Oh. _Oh._ Uh, well, don't feel bad, guys, we actually get a surprising amount of..._those_ kinds of accidents. I'm just going to write 'slipped in the shower' on your chart." Dave is obviously trying very hard to keep a straight face and failing miserably. "So, _this_ may need a few stitches, but overall, nothing looks too serious. Probably minor concussion. They might order you a CT just to be certain there's no underlying damage, but you seem pretty cognizant, Jon." Dave gives him a swift pat on the shoulder. "If you head back to the waiting room, a doctor will give you a call when they're ready to see you. Just so you know, we're kind of swamped back there at the moment. There was a pile up on the 676. First big snow of the season and everyone still drives like they're invincible." Neena elbows Pietro at that. "Your wait time might be a bit longer than average. If there's any change in conditions though, don't be shy about coming back up here and getting one of us to re-evaluate you, alright? We like to keep an eye on head injuries, just in case."

They barely clear the triage area, Dominic half a step behind, before Pietro sniffs huffily at Domino. "Two things—"

She laughs and shoves him lightly. "Come on, 'Tro, you _can't_ be mad about that after what you just did to me. That was nothing." Pietro scowls at her. "Okay, so maybe not Dominic specifically, but it's not even like you don't like guys—"

"Three things."

"—I mean, I've _seen_ you check out Cyclops' ass before."

"Four things now. Do you want to keep going?" Pietro stops in front of a bank of vinyl seating and removes his coat. (Dominic is thankful they are done walking for the moment; his balance is slightly off. He throws his jacket on top of Pietro's and sits down heavily.) "One: I checked out his ass for comparison purposes only. If the leader of the X-Men is going to be doing pistol squats, so should I. It's my responsibility to my team. That being said, I have never denied my interest in both women and men. It would be egregiously unfair to half of the population were I to limit myself to one sex. Two: When have I ever displayed anything but lascivious intent towards both you _and_ Dominic? I believe strongly in workplace equality." He is counting his points off on his fingers as he goes. "Three: While I am both vigorous and thorough, I resent the implication that I would put my partner's well being in danger during intercourse. I am an enthusiastic but considerate lover, which you would know if you'd ever taken me up my offer to sleep with you. Which still stands, by the way, but now it's going to be hate sex. Fourth, and finally: I am lukewarm towards sconces at best." Pietro sits down brusquely and buries himself in a section of yesterday's newspaper, effectively ending the discussion.

Domino grins, shakes her head, picks up a magazine, and settles on the other side of Dominic. Three and a half hours later, their positions have changed very little. Dominic has thrown up twice, stomach acid and mucus that burns in his chest and in his throat, once on the floor (Neena retrieved the roll of paper towels from the bathroom but made Pietro clean it up) and once moments ago in an absurd blue plastic kidney that Pietro acquired from Dave after the first time. Pietro runs his hand down Dominic's hunched spine, a wide firm sweeping of his palm. (The newspaper has long since been abandoned.) "This is ridiculous." He presumes Pietro is talking to Neena, because Dominic is still otherwise engaged in dry heaving miserably. The bench seating beneath them vibrates slightly; Pietro is bouncing his knee again.

"Can you _please_ stop doing that?" It's at least the fifth time Neena has snapped at him about it; since exhausting the waiting room's reading material in the first half hour, Pietro has been all nervous energy. "They're going to call Dominic soon."

"Soon like when you said that an hour ago? A man can only watch the loop of the CNN news feed so many times, Thurman." Pietro stops his knee but continues tapping his fingers inhumanly fast, rolling them pinkie to index, index to pinkie, on the small of Dominic's back. "Five minutes and we're going."

Neena agitatedly flicks a page forward in the 1993 issue of TIME she is pretending to read. "We've already waited it out this long."

"Too long. And Dominic is exactly the same, right Dom?"

Dominic spits into the container, trying to rid his mouth of the unpleasant taste. "I am fine."

"You are not _fine_; you're just stubborn." Neena replies, annoyance obvious. She is getting near the end of her tether with both of them. "You passed out."

"Once, _hours_ ago, and he hasn't since then," Pietro says petulantly. He leans forward across Dominic's back to look at her. "Now, I know it sucks for you to have to admit that you're wrong and I'm always right, but it's _just_ a concussion and all Dominic needs is to take a week or two off and he'll be right as rain. Look, all that's going to happen if we stay is that we're going to sit here for another two hours until they take Dominic back there, run a few tests, and tell us exactly what I just said. There's absolutely no point in being here, which I told you _hours_ ago when you demanded we come. Five minutes."

Neena frowns. (Both she and Dominic know that there are times when it is just easier for everyone involved if they give in to Pietro when he gets tetchy like this.) "Fifteen."

"Five."

Dominic has to give Neena credit; by the time Pietro realizes she has slipped her hand into the pile of coats on the seat beside her, she already has the keys to the Jeep from his jacket pocket in her hand. She jingles them triumphantly. "Fifteen. I have a feeling. "

"Fine," Pietro sighs. "But if I happen to go into a boredom-induced coma in the meantime, put in a 'Do Not Resuscitate' order for me."

He times it on his watch, calling out the half minutes. Two patients are brought back as they wait, but no one comes to retrieve Dominic. Pietro measures out the seconds now. He's standing smugly in front of Neena, one hand held out, palm up, for the keys. "Fourteen fifty-seven, fourteen fifty-eight, fourteen fifty-nine—" The blood that has been slowly pooling in Dominic's brain finally reaches critical volume, and he doesn't stay conscious long enough to hear Pietro arrive at 'fifteen.'

**Slide, 8 months ago, New York**

"Good morning Jon, and how are you doing today?" The state of New York has one thousand one hundred and seventy-four practicing neurologists. Dr. Paula Halloran is one of ninety-six that will treat mutants. It took Dominic five months to get his first appointment with her. (He's worried by the fact he got a second appointment so quickly.) She is in her forties and going grey gracefully, with an easy smile and a reassuring voice.

Dominic is not particularly reassured. (He hasn't completely trusted doctors since the experience with his migraines.) "I am fine, thank you." He's never certain how he's supposed to answer that question in this situation, if the doctor is looking for small talk or a description of his symptoms. If he was fine, he wouldn't be here.

She flips through his file. "Have you found the meloxicam helpful for the migraines?"

Dominic has only taken one dose of the small white pills. The rest are tucked carefully between his mattress and box spring. (Pietro could be terribly nosy.) While they did help, they also made him sick to his stomach and worse—dizzy, tired, completely useless for the field. He couldn't risk it if they were called on a last minute mission. "Yes, they are alright." Dominic is certain that anything she prescribes will produce similar results, and he cannot explain to her why he can't take them.

"Excellent. I'll write you out a renewal on that." Dominic carefully tucks the prescription she hands him between two twenties in his wallet. He will keep it just in case. "That should do you for a month, and by then we'll have you scheduled for a follow up."

"So the migraines are the reason I have been having problems, yes?" Things have been worse since the concussion he sustained five months prior [which is why he had been referred here in the first place], and worse again with last week's injury, but, if Dominic is being honest, he has been having difficulties with his focus and concentration for at least a year. It is like he is twenty-three all over again, confused and helpless and at odds with his own body. (He hates that he wishes Helen were here. It's selfish. If she were to come back, he wouldn't want to put her through this again. It makes him feel guilty that he only invokes her image now when he needs her.) It had been because of his mutation, latent and doing damage in its suppression. Since he had been using his powers, since he had realized he _had_ powers, he had been able to cope with it.

"They might be exacerbating the problem, but—" The pained expression that flashes across her face makes Dominic nervous. She covers it quickly and switches gears. (Dominic is simply well practiced at reading rapid-fire emotion from Pietro.) "You seem quite fit for your age group." And Dominic supposes this is true. He sees other men his age around town—normal men, men with regular jobs (he'd have been a full partner in the auto shop by now), men buying six packs in line in front of him at the corner store (he and Adelphos used to drink beer and watch the game every Sunday), men with their children in tow (Helen had always wanted a little girl)—with their commonalities that he can't afford in his profession: the weakening of the chest, the subtle hunch in the shoulders, the slight paunch. It could have been him, but it isn't. She frowns and looks again at the folder in front of her. "Do you play any contact sports, Jon? Ice hockey? Boxing? Football?"

"Football." Dominic's answer is practiced; it is the story he had given the physician at the walk-in-clinic as the reason for his most recent concussion. Dominic had honestly been surprised when the doctor had referred him to a specialist.

"Oh, my husband played in high school. He was as stubborn as all get out when he got hurt. You know the type, always _'fine,'_ he'll just 'walk it off.' He tore his ACL during the playoffs in his junior year and finished the rest of the game, but he was never the same after. That pretty much ended his career as an offensive tackle." She smiles. "He was never very good anyway." Dr. Halloran had been brief and busy (but not unkind—'No sense worrying about it until we know something for certain, Jon.' ['We.' Like they were a team.]) during his first visit. She had asked very pointed questions, and then sent him off with the requisition for blood work and an MRI relatively quickly. Dominic is bothered that she is engaging in small talk now. He has been through this before; he knows that she is trying to put him at ease. (Which means she is going to tell him something bad.) "The thing with contact sports, Jon, is that it can put athletes at a very high risk of repeated minor head trauma incidents, and there's evidence from your tests that this may be the case with you. Now, these are generally smaller scale even than concussions. Minor incidents tend to repair themselves and you wouldn't even notice them."

"I wear a helmet." Dominic frowns.

"I know." Dr. Halloran's voice is gentle as she explains. "Sometimes that's not enough. A lot of these types of injuries are the result of rotational forces or linear acceleration. There's no impact on the head directly but, say, when you get tackled, you're body stops but your brain keeps moving inside of your head. Now, most of the time, a layer of fluid cushions it, but sometimes the impact is hard enough that it causes your brain to bump against the inside of your skull. This can manifest as something big—loss of consciousness, concussion, aneurism—or the injury can be much more subtle and so can the effects. Headaches, difficulty concentrating, sleeping problems, memory retention issues, increased aggression, irritability... things most people just brush off as stress or a bad day.

"The big problem with these subtle injuries is that, especially when paired with repetitive major events over several years, they can be cumulative. Each time one of these happens, your body takes longer to recover—three or four months versus three or four weeks. If you sustain another one in that timeframe, it complicates things further."

She turns on a light board in the corner of the room and slides two pictures into the clips, "These are the MRIs we took. The one on the right's the scan I sent you for last week, and I had the one on the left transferred from Cooper. It's from shortly before the emergency surgery you indicated had taken place in 2005. Epidural haematoma with tentorial herniation, full recovery, no permanent loss of function; I was reading the file. If you hadn't already been in the hospital...." She shakes her head disbelievingly and taps the picture. "Well, let's just say luck must have been on your side, Jon." (Dominic almost smiles at that. Not only was luck on his side, she slept under the same roof [and had an affinity for vinyl bodysuits])

"Now, there are some noticeable differences." Dr. Halloran is still gesturing to the two images. "Some are obvious. The one we took last week doesn't have the lentiform bleed between the dura and skull that's characteristic of an epidural haemorrhage, thank goodness, or we'd have sent you to a neurosurgeon. Also, you'll see this dark pocket _here_ at the base of the skull, which is the contusion you recently received, and that seems to be healing well.

"Some of these divergences are atypical for normal conditions, but not unexpected with recurring small scale head injuries—pyramidal lesions, dilation of the ventricals, sulcul shrinkage. _This_ is my main concern though." She points to a small sickle-shaped division near the top that did not look particularly ominous to Dominic until this point. (He wishes now that he had asked Pietro to come.) "There's a pronounced perforation of the septum pellucidum in your most recent MRI that's completely absent from the one taken five years ago. That's an overt characteristic of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy and it's rarely seen in other conditions. With your permission, I'd like to send you to one of my colleagues for a confirmation of this, and then we can start looking into therapy options."

"I...I am not certain I understand you." Dominic feels trapped by his English. (The pit in his stomach is from so much more than a simple lapse in comprehension. Even if he has only understood half of what she has said, her body language reads all apologies and pity.)

"CTE is also sometimes called Chronic Boxer's Encephalopathy because of its prevalence in the fighting community." Dr. Halloran voice is reserved but sympathetic; practiced compassion. "Are you familiar with the term Punch Drunk Syndrome?" And that expression finally clicks in Dominic's word center, though it is no more reassuring now that he recognizes it. He conjures up images of the retired boxers he has seen in interviews on ESPN, the slur in their speech and the shake in their hands. (And worse, the news story from several years ago, the wrestler who had killed himself and his family because of something wrong with his brain from being knocked out too often.) But that was different. They hadn't known until the wrestler's autopsy; the boxers were always diagnosed much too late.

"This therapy will reverse the damage, then?"

Dr. Halloran's professionalism slips for a moment. Her eyebrows knit together; she breaks eye contact. "No, Jon, I'm sorry. If it _is_ CTE, and it does present, it's a progressive neurodegenerative disease. There's nothing we can do to stop it." She puts a hand on his shoulder. "But that doesn't mean you should be discouraged or that we're going to give up." (And there is her 'we' again.) "It could be years, decades even before it sets in. Some people don't exhibit until well into their sixties, and other people display the pathology we're seeing here and _never_ experience a single symptom beyond what you've already described to me. Sometime down the line, if need be, we can introduce medication used in the treatment of Alzheimer's or Parkinsonism, which can be effective in some cases. And, in the meantime, therapy with a neuropsychologist can be very helpful in dealing with some of the challenges this may raise. With just a few small adjustments, your day-to-day quality of life should remain quite high."

'Small adjustments' was doctor code; when the specialists had been trying to source his migraines, Dominic had had to make 'small adjustments' then too, and it had helped nothing. (He had given up smoking and drinking. He had limited his sodium, his sugar, his red meat, and anything else that made him happy. In case the exhaust fumes had been the trigger, he had had to quit his job at the garage.) This final thought makes Dominic's stomach clench. "Will I have to stop... playing football?"

"Well, I can't make you do anything," (Dominic appreciates that, at least.) "But in my opinion, you can't continue like this, Jon. Every time you get hit, you put yourself at a greater risk of causing more permanent damage. And it's not necessarily directly proportional either. One bad incident and your symptoms could go from manageable to debilitating."

"Oh." Dominic runs his hand through his hair, tugging it at the back of his neck. He doesn't know what to say. (And he's glad Pietro isn't here right now. [He wants Pietro here right now.]) "You said that I must go to another doctor, yes? That you might be wrong?"

"Yes, it's possible that I might be." The look on her face tells Dominic that she is sure that she isn't. "I'll get Karen to schedule you an appointment, as well as a follow up here, and put together some reading materials on CTE for you. If you have any questions later on, please feel free to call the office." She pats Dominic on the shoulder again. "I'm sorry, I know this is a lot to process right now. You _will_ get through this." (And the fact that she says 'you' instead of 'we' this time makes Dominic feel rather alone.)

**Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean**

Neena's words from yesterday pervade Dominic's focus as he begins to inspect the engines. She had been right, of course. Neena has a tendency to be right about these sorts of things. (Especially when Dominic doesn't want her to be.) His mind drifts to the rooftop even as his hands move steadily across the engine cover, inspecting the damage.

"Mortimer'll be back within the week." Her statement comes out of nowhere and Dominic is a bit taken aback; seconds ago, they were talking about the White Sox chances at making the World Series. (Dominic is a Mets fan himself, but Neena grew up in Chicago and he doesn't hold it against her.)

"No, Pietro sounded certain." They have just been dismissed from a team debriefing; a cigarette on the roof is a post-meeting tradition. Pietro frowns upon their shared tobacco habit and forces them to engage in it outside (something snippy about not ruining his magnificently athletic lung capacity.) Dominic enjoys Neena's company and the opportunity it provides them to discuss the Brotherhood away from Quicksilver. (For several hours after a meeting, the line between friend and leader becomes distinct and hard to cross with him. Fred doesn't smoke but occasionally joins them.) "You heard him. He said that Toad was a poor fit and we are done with him."

Neena rolls her eyes. "You know, I like you, Petrakis, but sometimes you are not the brightest crayon in the box," she teases, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Kind of a 'mud brown.'"

There is no real heat to the glare he casts in her direction. "Hey..."

"It must be that thick skull of yours." (And they both smile at that.) Dominic lights his cigarette. Neena elbows him gently in the ribs. "I bet you don't even know that the word 'gullible' isn't in the dictionary." She's borrowing a phrase Pietro uses frequently to describe some poor flatscanner he's managed to charm out of or into something with his chicanery.

"No?" Dominic is putting Neena on, all exaggerated surprise.

She winks at him, playing along, taking a half bow to an invisible crowd and sweeping an arm at Dominic as though they are in a game show. "Ladies and gentleman, my point." Dominic is struck by how wholly _Pietro_ the gesture is. (They've all known each other too long; they're starting to rub off on one another.) Neena would likely be annoyed if he told her that. "Seriously though, all I'm saying is that you tend to have a bit of a blind spot whenever Quicksilver is involved."

Dominic is sorely tempted to mention Rogue, but decides against it. He's curious now and he doesn't want to offend Domino. "Why do you think Mortimer will be back?"

"Isn't it obvious?" (To Dominic, it's not. Domino is right; he is far too close to look at this objectively.) She shakes her head indulgently when he doesn't respond. "Come on, mud brown, use your head for more than a hat rack for a second." (And that expression is Fred's.) "Pietro _loves_ the attention. Not only does Mort obviously have a thing for Pietro—and you know how he likes thinking he's God's gift to... well, everyone—but he also fucking hero worships 'Tro. Toynbee makes Pietro feel like he's actually the brave and competent leader that he so loves to believe he is in his own mind. Having Mortimer around is just one big ego stroke for Pietro. And I know _you_ stroke a lot of things for Pietro, but not that." She grins slyly at him, then sobers. "Of course, I don't think he'd really want you to."

Neena is almost terrifyingly accurate at reading people. With the exception of the X-man in their midst, Dominic trusts her implicitly. (She often claims that emotional intelligence is the difference between a good merc and a great one. It sounds a little bit like new-age bullshit to Dominic, but he goes with it because, whatever she wants to call it, it clearly seems to work for her.) This is not the first time she has explained Dominic's own relationship to him. "I am not certain I understand what you mean by that."

"Hrm." Neena tucks her hair behind her ear. (It's something she does subconsciously when she is trying to think of the best way to phrase something; it's also one of her poker tells. [She still wins every damn time.]) "You've seen Pietro's sock drawer, yeah? How each pair is neatly folded and it's arranged so it goes black, then grey, then white?" She draws out little boxes with her hands as she says the shades. Dominic nods. (Throughout the history of the Brotherhood, there had been exactly one ill-fated attempt to integrate laundry into the weekly chore rotation before it became painfully obvious—after rewashing and refolding everything that was his—that one member of their team was entirely too anal-retentive for that to be viable.) "Pietro likes everything to fit into very clear categories. If you suddenly started acting like Mort, his whole little OCD system breaks down because that's not your job."

"I think most of this falls out of the job description of the average evil henchman," Dominic says, leaning back on his elbows. "I was under the impression I would simply be making a lot of sinister grunts and perhaps flexing menacingly every so often when I signed up."

Neena makes a face at him. "_'Flexing menacingly'..._ honestly. You've been hanging out with Pietro too much; you've picked up his sass-mouth." She takes a cigarette from Dominic's pack and lights it. "I meant your job in your relationship with Pietro. And not 'relationship' as in....well, whatever the fuck it is you two classify what you're doing as; 'relationship' as in, you know, you and me, how we interact, the dynamic. Pietro has all of his interpersonal relationships as neatly categorized as his socks."

Dominic groans. "I have a feeling I am going to be the grey socks."

"You're stealing my metaphors' thunder here, grey socks."

"Is 'grey socks' a step up or a step down from 'mud brown'?"

"We'll see." Neena hits him on the shoulder good-naturedly. "So, here's my theory. Mortimer is basically oblivious to Pietro's crap, right? Oblivious is maybe the wrong word. Too tolerant, like he thinks he deserves it or something. I mean, Maximoff treats him like shit sometimes and Toynbee keeps coming back for more. Now, in one way, it makes Pietro feel good because he's being respected and obeyed as a leader, but it also kind of makes him feel like shit because he knows he's not really worthy of Mort's admiration. Sometimes, it's almost like Pietro's seeing just how mean he can be and how far he can push Mort to get him to realize that, but that's a whole different talk I should probably be having with Pietro and not you."

Dominic smiles. "I would not envy you that conversation."

"Why not?" She feigns surprise, bringing her hand to her chest. "Maximoff is always so good at taking constructive criticism." Her laughter is loud and unadulterated and takes a while to die down before she speaks again. "Now, Fred and I, on the other hand, don't put up with any of Pietro's bullshit. We're both professionals and we've both been in this business too long; if our leader fucks up, we have no qualms with chewing him out for it. _That_ makes Pietro feel bad because he's honestly trying to do his best and still failing spectacularly. But in a weird way, it also makes him feel good because Pietro _expects_ himself to fuck up, and it sort of reaffirms to him that yeah, he's a failure, but at least he's always been right in assuming that he's a failure, and that's the only one of his father's expectations he _does_ live up to."

"I do not think I am following you." Dominic leans forward and relights Neena's cigarette for her. It has gone out while she was talking.

"Thanks." Neena leans back against the vent, looking out at the skyline. "Honestly, don't ask me to try and explain that last part more thoroughly; I think I'd need an actual psychology degree, Pietro's brain, some mad scientist electrodes, and month of your time.

"What I'm trying to get at, though, Dominic, is this: Fred or I tell Pietro he's acting like a jackass and he gets all sulky and defensive; Mortimer tells him he's the greatest fucking thing since sliced bread and Pietro _resents_ him for it. But you? For some reason—and Lord knows how you do it, Petrakis—with you two, it's not like that. You tell Pietro he's acting like an asshole and nine times out of ten he kinda laughs and agrees with you and curbs his behaviour right away. Hell, sometimes, he'll even say it to you first, and when does Pietro ever admit to anyone he's wrong about something? Or when you tell Pietro that he's doing a bang up job, nine times out of ten he's modest about it...or least as modest as he ever gets. And he actually believes you; he doesn't think you're saying it because he's duped you into thinking he's something he's not.

"And that one time out of ten where Pietro doesn't agree with you right away and wants to vent his frustrations on you? You guys yell back and forth at each other for _maybe_ five minutes tops while you do your little testosterone-y man chat thing and then you're both right back to being ador—"

"Rule." Dominic interrupts her. ('Rule' came about during the first month that Dominic and Pietro went from casual sex to something more. If they so much as looked at each other during that time period, Domino was busting their balls about being adorable together. Pietro instated a rule that every time she used the 'A-word' to describe them, she owed them a case of beer. [Neena cheerfully proceeded to call Pietro several other A-words.] Somewhere along the way, it morphed into a sort of game between the three of them. If she could finish the word without Dominic or Pietro interrupting her, she was free of her beer obligation. It had petered off around the time Fred had joined the team. [They'd been sitting at the breakfast table one morning, calmly having a discussion, when both he and Pietro invoked 'Rule!' at Domino in the middle of her sentence. Fred was so startled he had dropped his glass of orange juice. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"] Using it now makes Dominic strangely nostalgic.)

"Fine—_bizarrely heart-warming_ with each other. Pietro needs you to do that for him, you're his median, you know? That's _your_ job and that's why you get to be the grey socks in this."

"So you and Fred are the black socks then?" Dominic grins.

"Nah, White Sox." She punches him on the shoulder again, harder this time and without warning. "I still can't _believe_ you don't think we have a chance at the pennant. We just got Peavy. He's pitching a 3.97 ERA right now, for chrissakes."

A/N: :: removes her tin hat for a moment to have a frank discussion with you, reader :: It's always kind of bothered me that bad guys just get 'knocked out' as a way of defeating them without there being any negative repercussions. Head injuries are serious business (and often there's a latent period where you feel fine between first losing consciousness and when the real problems sort of start.) (I know, I know, it's a Y7 show, you're looking too deep at things, Kelly.) 15-20% of athletes in contact sports develop some form of CTE, often years after they are done with their respective sports; I think being constantly subjected to field work as a part of a mutant splinter fraction would hold similar dangers and the BOM has five members so... (I know, I know, statistics don't work like that, Kelly.) Perhaps this is just overanalyzing on my part, but Dominic gets knocked out a crapload during the run of WatXM. And he's the only one who wears a helmet (and there's probably a reason for it.) And he occasionally gets really aggressive and mellows just as fast. ::shrugs:: It just seems to fit. :: readjusts her tin hat :: /pub lick cervix a nun's mint

Comments are always appreciated O_o


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Does anyone else remember the following snippet of dialogue from episode eight?  
Pietro: Why couldn't you just stay out of this Wolverine?  
Logan: Because you're stupid. (Full stop. End dialogue.) (Ooooosickburn)  
I think it may have been my favourite most unintentionally hilarious moment in the whole series. It comes up briefly in this chapter, which is why I mention it.

**Stones and Slab – Chapter Three**

**Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean**

Unsurprisingly, very few jet engines made their way into _Kritikos' Auto and Truck Service Center_ during the period Dominic worked as a mechanic's apprentice for Adelphos. Even if they had, Dominic still doubts he could do much right now using only the monkey wrench Pietro has 'liberated' from the X-Men's toolbox without their knowledge. He stares into the cylinder of the left engine. A few of the blades are nicked and bent, but not overly so; they can probably be smoothed out with the file he doesn't have, or reshaped with his non-existent hammer. Dominic is more concerned with the internal mechanics; if the compressor or turbines are shot, there is very little he will be able to do.

He has been at this for half an hour already. The right engine started on the first try. Dominic is debating dissembling both of them to compare the components, but part of him is afraid that plan will leave the Brotherhood with two useless engines. (He remembers the last time he worked on the SUV. _'I have finished changing the oil, Pie.'_ And Pietro cocking his head, raising his eyebrows. _'Uh, that's great, Dom, but I asked you to take a look at the brakes...'_ [Pietro was going to know, was going to ask, was going to realize] A smile. _'I can understand you had trouble concentrating; sometimes even _I_ get distracted by my sheer sexiness.'_ Dominic went back into the garage and changed the brake pads, half frustrated and half thankful that Pietro had not followed up.)

As though Dominic has conjured him from memory alone, Pietro appears beside him in a streak of green and silver. His voice is friendlier than when he brought Dominic the wrench twenty minutes ago. "How's it going?"

Dominic's fingers are numb with the cold; his head is too small for his skull—tight and painful and pressing at the temples; nothing about the engine he's been staring at for an eternity (and that the team is dependent on him alone to fix) makes any sense. (Dominic is not allowed to simply hide, he cannot tell everyone: _Trust me, our chances are much higher if I am not involved._ He is not afforded that luxury.) "Fine." The word comes out acerbic. Dominic catches himself; being short with Pietro is going to help nothing. He sighs, amends. "Slowly." Pietro pulls a face at that, and Dominic cannot help but laugh. (He can never stay angry with Pietro for long, even if he wants to.) Patience was not one of Pietro's virtues. "I am sorry; I am going as fast as I can. This is a bit outside of my area of expertise."

Pietro waves one of his hands dismissively. "No, I didn't mean it like that. I know you're doing the best you can, I just—"

"Hate waiting?" Dominic finishes. (Pietro doesn't have to explain.)

"Yeah." Pietro smiles at him, presses into his side closer than is strictly necessary to look into the engine. "Actually, I was going to say 'lack the patience that you have' but same difference. Of course, you're well practiced from putting up with me all these years." That is the closest Pietro will come to an apology; Dominic has learned to appreciate what he can get. "Want to take a break?"

Dominic scowls at the engine. "I should keep—" His sentence dies short when Pietro leans in and kisses him, fast and hard and with a bit more tongue than Dominic is particularly comfortable with should the X-Men happen to look over.

Pietro draws back, smirking wickedly. "That was really more of a direct order; I was only asking to be courteous. If you say no, I _will_ drag you away from this by force if I have to, you workaholic." He elbows Dominic in the side on the last word, uses the movement to link his arm with Dominic's and pull him from the engine.

"Alright, alright, I will go," Dominic concedes, his grudging tone only half in jest. Pietro stops dragging him; their arms remain entwined. "And I am not a workaholic. I simply do what is asked and what is required of me." Dominic bites his tongue and doesn't add 'unlike some members of our team.'

It's implied; Pietro sighs as though he did. He leans over and kisses Dominic again, softly, where the curve of his jaw meets his neck. "I know. Couldn't do this without you, Avalanche." He tugs on his arm gently. "Come on."

The small island affords little privacy; the rest of the Brotherhood remain in the passenger area of the plane, the X-men are closer than Dominic would prefer. (Iceman had passed by less than ten minutes before as Dominic was working. He had given a nervous half-wave, terribly polite. _'Uh, I'm just refreezing the edges. I figured you guys don't want to fall into the ocean either, right? ...um...I'm sorry if I messed up your plane.'_ Dominic guesses he and Mortimer would be the same age. He is young, too young, still a boy really, or maybe Dominic was just getting to old for this. ['You can't continue like this, Jon.']) He and Pietro take a seat near the edge of the ice, backs facing the jets and the X-Men. Pietro skims his fingers across the surface of the water. "Oh, shit, I almost forgot. These are yours." Dominic catches what Pietro throws at him instinctively.

He looks down at his hands. "My cigarettes."

"Yeah, you left them on the seat. I picked them up to sit down and I guess I threw them in my pocket or something." Pietro shrugs, bordering on self-conscious. Dominic cannot imagine a scenario where anyone could forget they had something in the pocket of their skin tight pants; Pietro always liked to pretend that anything nice he did happened by accident.

It's the gesture, it's the fact that he says nothing about 'cancer sticks' when Dominic lights one, (it's that the first puff has taken the sharpness off of his headache) that makes Dominic soften. "I am sorry for earlier." Dominic knows his hostility toward Toad does not make Pietro's job any easier.

"You should've been yelling at me, not Mortimer." Pietro flicks the water agitatedly, splashing it outwards. "He only suggested using Nitro to pull the archive job; it was my bright idea to try and explode us all over the fucking Atlantic." His head is bowed. "Which makes this what, the ten millionth time I've almost gotten you killed through terrible leadership?" He looks at Dominic out of the corner of his eye as he dries his hand off on the front of his shirt. Pietro places it on Dominic's thigh, slowly, as though he is testing an element on the stove to see if it will burn him.

"The number is around there. I lost track somewhere after nine million." Dominic's joke falls flat, Pietro stares down at the ice between his knees. Dominic is frustrated at Pietro for being so willing to protect Mortimer. (And he hates that there is a part of him that feels that way. He doesn't know if he can trust it either. _Pathological jealousy, irrational paranoia._ Were they just symptoms? Did it really matter?) He tries not to let it show, placing his free hand on top of Pietro's and squeezing. "Perhaps this was just not your best plan."

"I don't know," Pietro smiles ruefully at him, "it seems to have worked out about as well as anything else I ever try to do."

Dominic takes a pull of his cigarette and shifts closer to Pietro. Pietro leans into him; Dominic feels as much as hears him sigh. It's nice though, and if Dominic closes his eyes it is almost like they are home again, on the roof of the building. (It's one of the few times Dominic can get Pietro to slow down and sit still for more than thirty seconds in a row. The sound of the waves lapping remind Dominic of the breathy hiss of cars on the street twenty-four stories down.) Pietro flexes his fingers upwards and threads them through Dominic's, bringing Dominic back to the present. He pulls Pietro against his chest with his other arm. "You are too hard on yourself, Pie."

Pietro laughs and butts against him with his shoulder. "Uh, pot, kettle, black, Dom."

"What?"

"_You_ know," he arches his neck back so that he is looking at Dominic upside down. "'That's the pot calling the kettle black?' It's an expression."

"I do _not_ know." Dominic frowns. "And it is a poor expression. Our kitchenware is made of stainless steel."

"It's not supposed to be literal; it's an idiom." Pietro rolls his eyes. "When the phrase originated, pots and kettles were made of cast iron. They were _both_ black so it's saying that the pot's... You know what? Never mind. You're right; it doesn't really make a lot of sense now."

Dominic leans down to press his lips against the disconcerted furrows in Pietro's forehead. "No, I understand. We have a similar expression: _'Ipe o gaidaros ton petino kefala'_"

"Ooo, you know I like it when you speak Greek." Pietro bites his bottom lip with a smirk. (And it's true; Pietro has asked Dominic to speak in his native tongue [Pietro always put a truly licentious emphasis on the word _tongue_] during foreplay on more than one occasion. It makes Dominic feel awkward; he is taciturn at the best of times and doubly so in the bedroom. He never particularly knows what to say. Luckily, Pietro seems relatively pleased with the erotic quality of phrases like 'I used the last of the cream this morning in my coffee. We need to buy more the next time we go to the grocery store,' so long as they are not in English.) His hand creeps up Dominic's thigh. "What does that mean? Sounds sexy."

Dominic snorts. "'The donkey said to the rooster, "Your head is too big."'"

Pietro laughs loudly at that; Dominic can feel it resonate in his own sternum. "Okay, maybe not sexy. But the point remains." Pietro rearranges himself so that he's looking over at Dominic instead of backwards. "You're just as bad, _quod erat demonstrandum,_ you are not allowed to judge me."

"You do realize that Greek and Latin are not the same, yes?"

"Ye-es," comes Pietro's affronted response. "But for some reason the palace tutor thought that teaching us a dead language was much more useful. I'm just working with what I have. Which _is_ a considerable amount, mind you." Pietro cocks his eyebrow and flashes Dominic one of those smiles that makes his muscles warm and tighten. He gives a short, self-effacing laugh. "Of course, anything that I'm smart at isn't practical and," Pietro looks across the ice at Nitro and the X-Men, "as Wolverine so _tactfully_ reminded me earlier, anything that _is_ practical, I'm not smart at at all. But that's why I keep you around. It's the only reason, really." He taps his hand lightly against Dominic's thigh and smirks. "Well, I guess the sex is pretty alright too."

Dominic chuckles. "See, that is a practical thing you are good at."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dom, but that's not really something I think I'll be putting on my resume anytime soon."

Pietro's words remind Dominic of what has been bothering him all day and he frowns, suddenly serious. "Pietro, I have been doing well at my work, yes?"

"Dom..." Pietro's face slumps into contrition. "Come on, I was just teasing. You've been doing a great job lately; you _know_ I think that. Don't I always tell you that?"

"Yes." (_'Couldn't do this without you, Avalanche.'_ And Avalanche can't let Quicksilver down. Dominic can't let _Pietro_ down.) Dominic looks away from him, focussing on the expanse of the ocean. Pietro is at his best right now, sincere and thoughtful. (He doesn't want to think of Pietro at his worst. _'You have some fucking nerve, Petrakis, do you know that?'_ Dominic doesn't want to have this argument again.) "Then why is Toad still on the team?"

"Hey." Pietro places a hand on his cheek, ducking his head until he meets Dominic's down-cast eyes. "It's not about that anymore, okay? _You're_ wonderful. Mort's just...I mean, today, you didn't see him in... He doesn't have...I couldn't just..." And Pietro sighs and closes his eyes. He's businesslike again when he speaks several seconds later. "He proved himself useful with Nitro and we may need him in the future."

Dominic feels the weight of the cigarette package in his pocket; Pietro always liked to pretend that anything nice he did happened by accident. Dominic sometimes wishes he didn't love him for it. (Mortimer doesn't deserve Pietro's rare moments of thoughtfulness, but Dominic should not take it out on Pietro. Mortimer is to blame here.) He lifts his eyes and smiles at Pietro."Perhaps it is time I return to being useful myself, yes? Our engines are not going to fix themselves."

"Workaholic," Pietro chides gently, standing and holding out his hand to pull Dominic to his feet. "I should probably go check on the others anyway. Lord knows this team falls apart without my ever vigilant supervision." He scowls over his shoulder and Dominic follows his stare. Several of the X-Men have formed an efficient looking assembly line as they repair their jet, oozing teamwork and discipline. Wolverine is at the head. "'You're stupid.'" Pietro's voice is gruff, a poor imitation. "What a self-righteous dick. The nerve of that guy, like he's never fucked up before or something."

Dominic presses against the tightness already forming in Pietro's neck with his fingers. "Do not worry about him; you are a much better leader. That is why I follow you." Pietro lets out a low moan of pleasure as Dominic pushes his thumb into a knot at the top of his shoulder blade. Dominic chuckles gently. "Not simply because I enjoy seeing you in spandex from behind."

"Thanks." Pietro's laugh is delighted and breathy. He stands stock still until Dominic works the muscle loose, and then arches his back like a cat, rolling his neck on his shoulders. "Thank you," he repeats, softer, closer now. "You know, you're craftier than I give you credit for, Dom. I came out here to check that _you_ were alright after that hit and I wasn't pushing you too hard on the engine, and here you are making me feel better." He shakes his head admonishingly. "Absolutely diabolical." Pietro smirks and leans in as though he's going to kiss Dominic. He pauses, chewing on his lower lip, looking at Dominic earnestly. "You're sure you're okay though?"

Dominic can feel the bottom drop out of his stomach, a freefall in guilt. He can't bring himself to tell Pietro now (can't ruin the calm of this moment between them, can't tell Pietro he's been hiding it from him, can't disappoint Pietro, [can't imagine not being with the Brotherhood, here, at times like this when he is needed)] Pietro is depending on him to fix the engine. (Pietro is depending on him to fix Pietro.) He smiles as genuinely as he can. "I was not injured today." The words taste gritty on his tongue.

"Good." Pietro breathes out a sigh of relief. Dominic can feel the warm rush of air against his mouth, the frisson of muscles as Pietro curves a smile against his lips, and then the soft wet pressure as he kisses Dominic properly. When Pietro pulls away, he's still grinning. "I guess I'll leave you to it then. Hopefully Thurman hasn't staged a coup in my absence." He presses another quick kiss against Dominic's cheek before zipping off toward the door to the cockpit.

Dominic heads the other way, rounding the nose of the plane. He's surprised to see Mortimer at the broken engine. The moment with Pietro slides through his fingers as though it had never been there at all. Dominic clenches his fists and stalks toward Toynbee.

**Sheer, December 2005, New Jersey**

"Hey stud, how're you feeling?" Neena saunters into the room, carrying a rather sad looking plant under her arm. Her face is a welcome change from the blur of nurses and specialists that have been rotating through since Dominic surfaced from the anaesthetic over an hour ago. (Perhaps because she holds no promise of testing. Everyone who has seen Dominic has either made him answer questions and perform simple motor tasks [apparently the best way to assess if he is recovering properly,] or stabbed him with needles [apparently the best way to assess his fondness for needles... 'Not particularly fond,' is the answer.]) Neena smirks at him, setting the clay pot on his bedside table. "Let me guess. Fine?" She punches him in the shoulder harder than necessary. "I mean, it was only _brain surgery._ I'm sure you can just walk it off."

Dominic frowns. He is on a balance of pain medication strong enough to keep the edge off, but not so much that it makes him groggy. The nurse had said that they wanted him 'nice and alert' so they could assess his recuperation. In addition to the slight pounding in his head, (which he's been told is expected [and is certainly on an improvement on his headache from before the surgery.]) Dominic feels sore and abused all over (perhaps because of his proclivity for becoming closely acquainted with rather solid floors three times in the past twenty-four hours.) "I was fine until you hit me."

Neena cups a hand to her ear. "What was that? 'Thank you Neena for saving my life? Words cannot express the gratitude I feel for you right now?' Aww, thanks, Petrakis, you're too sweet. In case you're wondering what might be an appropriate expression of your appreciation, nothing says 'I'm forever indebted to you' quite like that pair of AR-15's I've had my eye on."

"I will keep that in mind." As offhand as Dominic says that, he does mean it. (Neena deserves far more than firearms; he's been told more than once in the past hour that he should consider himself lucky to even be alive.) He smiles at her wryly, looking meaningfully over at the table. "Are you certain you will not be just as happy with a dying fern?"

"Hey, it's a _ficus,_ and it happens to be the finest piece of flora the Cooper University Hospital gift shop has to offer at the moment." Neena punches him in the shoulder again, softer this time, her illusion of being offended spoiled when she grins broadly at the door. "Also, it's from both of us but _someone_ refused to sign the card."

Dominic realizes for the first time that Pietro is standing in the hall just outside of the doorway. He scowls at Neena. "I'm not putting my name on that."

"Maximoff just doesn't appreciate fine poetry." She plucks the small card from a plastic holder amongst the leaves and reads it aloud. "'Pietro was wrong/And roses are red/You're as stubborn as hell/But we're glad you're not dead.'"

Dominic snorts. "Thank you, that is…lovely."

Neena slides the card back into the holder, beaming at him. "It was down to that or _'I know it sucks for you to have to admit that you're wrong and I'm always right'– Words Pietro Maximoff has to eat, December 12, 2005'_ but I think I might actually have that etched onto something more permanent. Ooh, maybe a mug; I bet that would look nice on a mug."

"She's been like this since they told us the surgery went fine," Pietro informs Dominic, rolling his eyes and finally entering, stopping several steps in to the room.

Neena nods sympathetically. "Yes, poor you, Maximoff. I can't possibly imagine what it must be like to deal with someone who is insufferably smug on a regular basis."

Pietro sighs heavily. "How long, exactly, can I expect these little barbs of yours to go on, Thurman?" He sounds tired and out of sorts, more agitated than usual.

"Well, the doctor told us four weeks of in-hospital recovery time, so conservatively, I'd say four weeks." Neena's smile is cyanide sweet. "But you'll likely be wrong again in the meantime, so really, it's anyone's guess. Years maybe."

The nurses had not given Dominic a specific timeframe. "I must stay here for four weeks?" That's nearly a month he will be out of commission on the Brotherhood. "That seems like too much time, no?"

"No." The look Neena gives him is firm and resolute. "And the doctor said its four weeks _here_; three months until you're work-ready again." She frowns. "Don't make that face at me, Petrakis." (Dominic did not realize he had been making a face. [But three months seems excessive.]) "If today taught us anything, it's that you shouldn't mess around about shit like this. You just had a hole drilled into your head, for chrissakes…which apparently took longer than usual, actually." Neena laughs at that, unexpectedly and loud in the relative quiet of the ICU. "The neurosurgeon told us that you have a slightly thicker than average skull." She preens. "Just something else I was right about."

Pietro drums his fingers on the metal bed frame. "Yes, yes, Thurman, you are a veritable fount of wisdom. Why don't you go see if that distinction and a dollar seventy-five will get you a coffee in the cafeteria while I talk to Avalanche about my expectations for him in the interim?"

"Oh good, I definitely haven't drank enough of French roasted black mystery sludge yet." Neena spins around as she reaches the doorway, the sharp click of her heels halting abruptly. "Your 'expectations' for him better not be anything other than 'getting better' or maybe 'watering the ficus,' Maximoff. As much as I'm enjoying filling my quota for smug satisfaction, I'd rather not end up doing this over again." As she turns, Dominic is certain he hears her mutter something about 'not learning from mistakes' and 'the Y-chromosome.' Pietro is busy flipping through Dominic's medical chart with a frown and doesn't acknowledge her.

Dominic waits until he is reasonably certain that Neena is out of hearing range before he assures Pietro (still flipping and frowning), "Do not worry, I will not be out of the field for so long." Dominic cannot stand the idea of being useless, and he knows Pietro has little patience for recovery times. Together, they'll be able to wear Neena down to a more reasonable period. "I will be fine."

"Don't be stupid," Pietro snaps. Dominic is not certain if it is because of the surgery (one of the specialists said it might require several days for non-verbal cue recognition to come back) or because he can't remember ever seeing it on Pietro's features before, but it takes Dominic almost a minute to identify his expression as 'distressed.' (If it had been anger or superiority or displeasure, Dominic is sure he would have gotten it right away.) It strikes Dominic how very young Pietro looks right then (he often forgets that he and Neena have him by half a decade) and smaller somehow now that he is not puffed up with self-importance. "Thurman and I will manage." He pinches the bridge of his nose, voice low. "I'll let Magneto know our unit is on restricted duty for the quarter." Pietro sinks into one of the chairs, shoulders slumped. "I'm sure it'll be fine; he never expects much from us anyway."

It was Neena who told Dominic about Pietro's familial ties to Magneto. In his year with the Brotherhood, Dominic has never once heard Pietro slip up and refer to him as his father. It seems so obvious in this moment that Dominic wonders, not for the first time, why Pietro bothers with the charade at all. "Perhaps..." (and Dominic hates to suggest this, admit this, concede this, [but Pietro looks so utterly defeated]) "You could find someone else while I am useless to you?"

"No, you're not a cog," comes the somewhat distraught reply from the blur now pacing at the foot of the bed.

(Dominic is surprised at how quickly he has become frustrated by this conversation. The nurses have been telling him that he has been doing well on their visits, picking things up again at an encouraging pace. Five minutes with Pietro and Dominic feels as lost and confused as when he first came out of the anaesthesia. It is as though Pietro is trying to be more cryptic and difficult than usual. [Dominic never sees any point in being anything but straightforward.])

"A cog?" Dominic repeats slowly, trying to cut through the waves of Pietro's manic energy that are rushing over him as solidly as the gusts of air from Pietro's power each time he changes direction.

Pietro stops long enough to look at him. (Look past him, really.) "There will never be a shortage of cogs, and one must never plan as such. They are an important part of the machine, yes, but ultimately expendable and replaceable." Pietro's voice is hollow, as though he is reciting something he's had to repeat innumerable times before. (Dominic can't quite put a finger on why it makes him so uncomfortable.) "But you're not—I can't—you and Neena are—fuck, how can he—how can anybody be—I mean, how can he expect me to be so...? You almost _died._" Pietro sounds stricken as he stares at Dominic, really sees him, trapped by a moment he hadn't intended and didn't want. (Dominic is thankful he does not resume pacing.) "I almost got you killed because I just—" His hands raise and then lower in front of him uselessly, resting at his sides, failing to produce the words Pietro is trying to find.

The silence hangs; Dominic doesn't know what to say. "Neena and I are aware of the risks in what we do." (It's true, of course. Neena is a professional and she believes wholly in their cause. [Enough to die for it.] For Dominic... after Helen... he...) Dominic sighs.

Pietro's breathing slows; he sits back down. The smirk he shoots Dominic is almost normal (a bit too insecure to pull off the usual cocky swagger) as he runs his hand back through his hair, tugging on the white strands. "I guess this is the first time _I've_ really thought about the risks...for all of us. Some leader." He makes a short, harsh, derisive sound. "Before tonight, this always just felt like another of father's challenges to try and beat, and ultimately fail at." Pietro's eyes go wide as he realizes what he has just said.

Dominic does his best to not draw attention to it. He is ill at ease with this situation; he has never seen Pietro like this (so viciously honest and painfully unconfident; it makes Dominic almost squeamish to watch) and he's unsure of what he should do. (They have crossed a line tonight.) This is Dominic's fault for getting injured. (Pietro should not be so hard on himself.) "It is not a game for me; it is my job. I am sorry I failed you."

Pietro looks down for a moment, shaking his head with a low laugh. "For chrissakes, don't _apologize _to me. Are you trying to make me feel like even more of an asshole than I already do?" Pietro's voice is normal again, composed and himself and completely devoid of the overactive timbre that tainted it seconds before. (Dominic wonders if he is responsible for that, somehow. He's not exactly certain what he did if that is the case.) "Look, just...in the future, if you think you're going to need serious medical attention, don't be so fucking obstinate about, alright? And _I'll_ do my best to not have my head so far up my ass that I completely miss it even if you are. I _like_ having you on my team, Petrakis, and that is going to be seriously hampered if you die on me, okay?"

Dominic smiles, nodding slowly. (It is all his head can handle at the moment.) "Try not to die. Check."

"Good." Pietro smirks at him and gives him a firm pat on the forearm through the bars of the bed frame. "Training new members is a real pain in the ass."

"Pain in the ass? " Neena peeks her head through the doorway. "You know, it's not polite to talk about yourself all the time, Maximoff."

Pietro frowns. "It's also not polite to listen in on other people's conversations, Thurman."

She shrugs, sloshing coffee from the two Styrofoam cups in her hands onto the tile. "I came back and you were still talking. How was I supposed to know you two were getting all intimate?" She gestures to Pietro's right hand, still resting on Dominic's arm. "Five more minutes and I might have caught something interesting." Pietro takes the cup of coffee Neena offers him with his left, apparently unconcerned with the implication Neena is making. (Dominic himself finds the basic physical pressure comfortable. Since Helen, Pietro is the only one who touches him like that. He still doesn't really know what to make of it. For now, he enjoys the simple warmth of it.)

Pietro grimaces as he takes a sip. "Ugh, this is awful." It is only then that he pulls his hand away, using his finger to stir the drink. Even three feet away, Dominic can smell the overwhelming bitterness of it. (It will be weeks before he is allowed coffee again.)

"I dunno." Neena smirks into her cup. "Like I told the triage nurse earlier, I think it's kind of adorable."

Pietro rolls his eyes. "Har har, Thurman. Haven't you reached your 'smug quota' for the day yet?"

She grins, plopping herself down into the other visitor's chair. "It's easy to be smug when you're wrong and I'm always right, Maximoff."

A/N: In Freedom Force comics, Dominic likes to garden. The "water the ficus" comment Neena makes _may_ be a bit of a fangirl nod to that. Also, the thought of WatXM Dominic gardening (and perhaps randomly bumping into Storm as they choose tulip bulbs at a local greenhouse) makes me giggle uncontrollably.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: "I'll try to post a new chapter every 2-4 days!" Yu-huh, Kelly, that was an excellent strategy, until you got to the last part that, when you reread your shiny first draft, made you want to punch kittens so hard that you basically had to tear almost everything but the dialogue down and retry. (No actual kittens were harmed in the making of this fic. Also, "sorry for the delay, dear, patient, awesome reader," is the moral of this rant heh.)

**Stones and Slab – Chapter Four**

**Slide, 8 months ago, New York**

Fred is sitting on the sofa watching television when Dominic returns, and doesn't bother to look up. "Petrakis," he says, by way of greeting, nodding his head once. The rest of the common area is empty.

"Fred," Dominic returns amiably. He locks the door behind him, takes two steps, and then turns to double check that he did remember to lock the door. Dominic hates that it's become a pattern lately. (_'Short term memory loss is common in those with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.'_ He also hates that everything in the information packet on CTE rang a bit too true as he read it on the subway ride home. He's glad now that he threw the whole folder into the construction dumpster behind their building. He didn't want Pietro to find it, but he also doesn't want to look at it again. It makes everything seem so absolute.)

Dominic is nearly to the motley arrangement of furniture that designates a particular section of the large open area as the living room before Fred speaks again. (Dominic appreciates having Fred around. Unlike the rest of the Brotherhood, he knows the value in rationing words [and in not asking what Dominic has been up to.]) "You missed one helluva meeting today; Maximoff brought home a stray frog." Fred laughs at his own joke.

Dominic throws the copy of the Times onto the coffee table a bit more aggressively than he intends and sits in one of the recliners, kicking off the tight leather shoes. "Yes, I met our new member this morning before I left." His socks are sticky with sweat when he tugs at them, tossing them onto the floor near the ficus tree. He can feel the damp between his toes, under his armpits, clinging to his testicles. Going into the heart of the city always makes him feel like he needs to take a shower. "I was not particularly impressed."

"Thurman ain't either. 'Course, she gave Pietro her typical liberal bullshit about 'reserving judgment until seeing how he performs in the field.'"

Dominic frowns. He had hoped Neena would stop Pietro's ridiculous experiment in punishing him before it made it out of the gate. (However, he is not completely surprised. Neena has always had a soft spot for visible mutations; it's one of the things he generally likes about her. [It reminds Dominic that, like him, she wasn't always so hard.] He just wishes that in the face of glaring cowardice and ineptitude, she would have made an exception.) "And what did _you_ think of him?"

"Me?" Fred looks finally from the television, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. "Oh, I think he'll be about as useful as tits on a bull." Dominic laughs at that, unexpectedly and hard; his shoulders relax, his stomach unclenches. Being around Fred and his odd Texas expressions always does wonders for Dominic's mood and for expanding his more colourful English vocabulary. "'Course I didn't tell Maximoff that. He's being more of a little bitch than usual today."

"Oh?" And just as quickly, Dominic's stomach tightens again, his shoulders drop heavily.

"New guy's already rubbing off on him…or wants to rub him off." Fred snorts. "Thurman thinks you got yourself some competition on that front. Not that there's really any competition; you're better than that kid is." Fred's eyes widen, abjectly horrified at what he has just said. "Not that I'm into guys or nothing. Because I'm not. No offense. I mean, whatever you and Maximoff do on your own time is your own damn business, but it's not for me. I wasn't trying to come on to you…" Fred trails off helplessly, looking pained.

"I understand what you were trying to say." Dominic waves his hand, trying not to laugh outright. Fred looks more relieved than is entirely decent. "Thank you for the sentiment."

Fred's eyes are back on the T.V. "Don't mention it," he grumbles.

Dominic gets the distinct impression that Fred means that literally, and changes the subject in the interest of their friendship and his short-term health. "Where _is_ Pietro?"

"They're all up on the roof. Thurman's showing off with her gun."

"You mean she is making the new member fear for his life around her, yes?" Dominic is remembering Fred's particularly unfortunate deck of nudie-girl playing cards that more closely resembled Swiss cheese the first time Domino felt the need to show _him_ her exquisite marksmanship upon joining the Brotherhood.

Fred's face stretches into a wide grin, "Isn't that what I said?"

Dominic takes the stairs to the roof two at a time. He's slightly out of breath when he reaches the top. (He needs to lay off the cigarettes. He needs to start jogging again when he wakes up. [And none of that is going to change a damn thing about this morning.]) Dominic hears his teammates before he sees them, following the clean, solid sound of Neena's carbine. He rounds a corner to find Pietro side-arming tennis balls off the edge of the roof in rapid succession. Domino carefully follows the arcs, each shot concluding with a brilliant green collapse of fuzz and lead and rubber dropping from the sky.

"Hey, Dom." Neena doesn't turn as she speaks, but both Pietro and Mortimer do, the former for a split second before pretending that he hadn't, the latter with a strange sort of squeak. _This_ was Dominic's replacement. (Perhaps _yellow_ would have been a more appropriate colour for him.) Neena drops her gun from her shoulder, letting it swing idly by her hip, and dismounts from her perch on the ledge with a fluid, graceful leap. She shakes her head at Pietro and Mortimer. "You two would make lousy snipers if someone can sneak up on you that easily. And you," she grins at Dominic, "taking off your shoes and socks was a nice touch, but I wouldn't go into the mercenary assassination business just yet."

"I will keep that in mind." Dominic can feel his smile go flat, his eyes on Pietro who is obstinately focused anywhere but on him.

"You put on some proper footwear and I would definitely hire you as my suspiciously burly accountant though." Neena glances meaningfully back at Pietro and gives Dominic a quick, heartening squeeze on the shoulder. "Well, Mortimer, I think that's just about all the ammo our budget can handle for the day. Why don't we go downstairs and I'll let you watch me take apart my gun."

"Cool." Mortimer nods as though his head is not quite hinged correctly, looking rather enthusiastic to be anywhere Dominic is not. "Can I help?"

"Oh sweetie," Neena throws an arm around Mortimer's shoulder jovially and begins leading him toward the stairs. "Of course not. I'll show you the billiards room after though and I promise you can touch the things in there."

"We have a billiards room?"

"Uh... we have a pool table that's _in_ a room, which is basically the same thing."

"Oh, I'm pretty okay at pool."

Even with her back turned, Dominic can hear the smirk in Neena's voice. "Are you a betting man, Mortimer?"

"Thurman." The warning is the only indication that Pietro is paying attention to the conversation at all. He rolls the tennis ball across the tips of his long fingers. His eyes remain fixed on the city below.

"You're no fun, Maximoff." Neena turns over her shoulder. Her tone is light but the look she gives Dominic is deliberate. "Oh, Dominic, almost forgot. Did you hear Burnett's ERB is 85 so far this year? I think he's going to have a bad season."

It's a completely counterfeit statistic. After they took Pietro to the Mets 2006 home opener, it became painfully clear to Dominic and Neena that Pietro knew almost nothing about the sport. (And didn't appreciate the subtleties of the play at all. He spent the first four innings doing nothing but complaining about spending good money to be subjected to mind-numbing tedium. The fifth inning consisted of Neena flirting shamelessly with the beer kid. ["Look, guys, I know it's not the most forward thinking thing in the world, but if I'm going to ruin my back lugging these puppies around, I'll be damned if I'm ever going to pay ten dollars for a drink."] By the game winning homer at the bottom of the ninth, Pietro was so far in the bag that he damn near got them kicked out. ["Fuck, guys! There's fucking fireworks? I fucking _love_ baseball!"] Only a group of even rowdier fraternity boys that distracted the security guards kept it from being escalated into a situation. [And Pietro rescinded his love of baseball when he spent the next day too hung over to move more than five feet from the toilet comfortably.]) Dominic and Neena used it now as a way to communicate subtly in front of Pietro when one of them had been absent. This meant that Pietro's bad mood was at an eighty-five out of a possible one hundred. (Anything over ninety usually involved Magneto.)

"It was a poor trade," Dominic sighs.

Neena clucks sympathetically. "You're telling me."

Mortimer has been watching the whole exchange, half hidden behind Neena, large golden eyes warily watching Dominic the entire time. (It is as though he half-expects Dominic to lunge forward and attack unprovoked at any moment. Part of Dominic is perversely tempted to do so—a cruel, insidious impulse—disdain shifting into outright contempt the longer he spends in his presence.) Dominic is surprised that Mortimer speaks up at all. "But Burnett hasn't been traded since—Ow!"

"And we're going." Neena has a claw-like grip on Mortimer's thin bicep, her voice unnaturally cheerful as she practically shoves him through the doorway. "You know kid, I really want to like you, but you're going to have to learn when to keep your mouth shut around here first."

Pietro throws the tennis ball at the low concrete wall that edges the roof, catching it on its return, repeating the process and completely ignoring Dominic. Each time, Pietro lets out a low grunt as he releases it. Each time, it hits with a dull thud. The midday sun is hot on the back of Dominic's neck. Uncomfortable. He undoes the top button of his collar. The tennis ball thumps like a heartbeat. Dominic lights a cigarette and takes a seat on the ledge of one of the vent grates. It's been a week since he's smoked; the tobacco hits him hard, makes him light-headed. He wishes Neena had stayed.

"Those things'll kill you, Dom." Pietro doesn't divert his focus from the fluorescent green blur. He doesn't have to, really; they've had this argument before. Pietro could be surprisingly particular when it came to what went in and out of his body, and unsurprisingly preachy when it came to sharing his opinions. They both already know what they are going to say. The disagreement is easy and familiar and not at all what either of them wants to talk about.

Dominic takes a careful inhalation; slow this time, and not as deep. He's rewarded with the smooth coil of smoke in his lungs, the customary warmth, and none of the head rush. "If I live long enough in this line of work to be killed by cigarettes, I will consider myself a lucky man." It's his standard response. Merc humour, Domino calls it, but today it seems overly morbid. Dominic is fairly certain he does an adequate job of keeping the shake out of his voice.

He expects Pietro to smirk and make some quip about how if Dominic wanted to spend his old age in an iron lung, he'd better start flirting with Tony Stark. Instead, Pietro lets out a strangled sound, throws the ball high and wild and it sails over the edge of the roof. He swears at it. (Or maybe the curse is meant for Dominic.)

"I..." Dominic's English fails him. (This would not be any easier in Greek.)

Inhumanly fast, Pietro is inches away from him, his breath quick and warm against Dominic's face, not so much shaking from rage as vibrating. He yanks the cigarette from Dominic's hand and crushes it, grinding it beneath his boot. "You have some fucking nerve, Petrakis, do you know that?" His voice is cold and hard and barely restrained.

"Pie—"

"Quicksilver," he corrects. The switch means that this has become a team matter, between Quicksilver and Avalanche, not Pietro and Dominic. Pietro always dictates this shift. Not for the first time, Dominic hates himself for agreeing to the system; Pietro always needs to compartmentalize and Dominic never really can.

"Pietro," he challenges back determinedly. This isn't about Pietro. (For _once_ in _five years,_ this is not about Pietro.)

"Dom." His name leaks from Pietro's mouth like a balloon with a pinhole, venting fury instead of air as the vowel is drawn out—Pietro is angry at himself for losing his patience, angry at Dominic for not following along—until Pietro suddenly pops. "Do you really want me to fucking say it! Fine. You're not cutting it in the field, alright? You know it, and I know it, and you haven't been for a while now." Dominic can tell he's been practicing this. (Pietro does that sometimes before he speaks to his father, going over his arguments while he paces the floor of his room. [And afterwards, revising his rebuttals, what he should have said instead of what he actually did.] Dominic hates to watch him.)

Dominic wants to explain himself, defend himself, (make excuses for himself. Pietro is right; he is failing his team. The reason doesn't matter.) His words come out dull and wrong and flatly accusatory. "So you are replacing me."

"No, I am not _replacing_ you." Pietro clenches his jaw, jabbing his index finger into Dominic's breastbone. "_That_ might actually be the logical thing to do." (Each word he emphasizes earns Dominic another sharp prod.) "Instead, for _your_ benefit, mind you, I've spent the last fucking week trying to find someone who would supplement _your_ obvious shortcomings so I can add another person who is probably not going to listen to me to my _already_ razor thin budget and still keep you on, Dom, because for _some_ reason, Lord knows why, I love you and _clearly_ this has made me delusional enough to think you might actually be fucking _appreciative_ of my hard work instead of insulting my efforts and then disappearing for the _Whole. Fucking. Morning._" Pietro breathes audibly, nostrils flaring, chest heaving. "God, you can be so fucking selfish sometimes."

The noise Dominic makes in response, desperate and angry and frustrated, is neither English nor Greek nor particularly human. Pietro pulls his hand away, confusion mixing into the agitation on his face. (Because Dominic doesn't do this with Pietro. [Pietro is the blaze, his temper bright and hot and fast; Dominic is supposed to be the ember. But Dominic is overwhelmed, reactions flaring and snuffing out before he can even properly identify how he should burn.])

(_Indignant, furious._) How dare _Pietro_ accuse _him_ of being selfish? _Ipe o gaidaros ton petino kefala._ (_Isolated, scared._) Pietro's not even trying to understand what Dominic has been through today, what he has been trying to cope with for the last year. Pietro is too wrapped up in himself to even notice that there's a problem. (And there _is_ a problem. [One that's never, ever going to go away and, honest to God, Dominic doesn't know if he can cope with this, alone or at all]) (_Stupid, naive._) What did Dominic really expect from Pietro? Sympathy? _Support?_ Dominic is deluding himself; their relationship doesn't work that way. (How can he expect Pietro to act any differently when it's been like that since the beginning?) Dominic is the pillar, the buttress, the rock. (_Shamed._) And Dominic is not holding up his end of the bargain, is he? He is failing everyone with his weakness. (This is so much more frustrating than his migraines. This is permanent. This is only going to get worse and he is only going to continue to let Pietro and the Brotherhood down.)(_Guilty._) And Dominic is being unfair. Pietro _has_ noticed and, as misguided as it seems, he was trying to do this to help. (And how can Pietro know what Dominic needs, what is wrong, if Dominic doesn't tell him? But Dominic can't tell him. [This is all he has now.])

Pietro is right; Dominic _is_ selfish. "I will be better." (Because that is what Dominic _can_ do. Keep his head down. Square his shoulders. Pull his weight. Work harder [until he can't even do that anymore, and the prospect of that is so terrifying that Dominic pushes it out of his head immediately.] He will just work harder. It is as simple as that. ['You can't continue like this, Jon.'])

Pietro is deflated, empty of his anger. He sighs and sits down next to Dominic, his eyes on the crushed cigarette, his hand on Dominic's knee. "You always know exactly what to say to make me feel like a complete asshole; you know that, right?" He gives a small smile when Dominic looks over at him. "You don't need to be better, okay? I do. I was _trying_ to be, I just apparently screwed it up again. Big fucking surprise." (Pietro is too hard on himself.)

"You are not an asshole." Dominic slips effortlessly back into their pattern. He's ashamed with himself at how easy it is to reset to their default. He's being a coward by not telling Pietro. (Far worse than their new recruit could ever be, because Dominic is hiding it and pretending he is not.) "I am the one who is not meeting your expectations."

"And who's to say those expectations are even reasonable, Dom?" Pietro clicks his tongue impatiently against the back of his teeth. "My life hasn't exactly been brimming with positive examples of achievable, practical goal setting, now has it? What if I'm pressuring you to do things you can't possibly fulfill but are going to do anyway because you feel some innate sense of loyalty to this job and me but are just going to end up-getting-yourself-killed-over-because-you-think-I-won't-'strueandI_am_'—"

Dominic puts his arm around Pietro firmly, pulling him into his side. "Pietro. Breathe."

"Yeah," Pietro gives a short, faint laugh into Dominic's collarbone, pressing his forehead against his neck. "Right. Thanks. I've really got to stop letting Thurman pretend-psychoanalyze me. Sometimes she's a little too insightful."

"What is this about, Pie?" Dominic wishes he could see Pietro's face at the moment and not just the back of his head.

"Look, last week with the MRD when we couldn't get you to come around in the truck—" Pietro groans, fidgets against him until he can look at Dominic out of the corner of his eye. "Fuck, you're going to actually make me say this, aren't you?—I was worried about you, all right? Really worried. Watching-you-collapse-in-a-hospital-waiting-room-'your-friend-needs-emergency-surgery-and-might-die-because-you're-a-fuck-up-of-a-leader-who-ignored-a-problem-again' kinda worried. Maybe you didn't notice things have been getting a little lax with your protocol lately," (Shame twists Dominic's stomach) "but I did, and I didn't say anything to you about it because, well...you know." Pietro lightly hits Dominic's thigh with his own, smiles at him. (Dominic knows.) "You make things complicated sometimes, Avalanche."

"I am sorry, Quicksilver." (He's calling Pietro by his code name now; he has conceded to their routine completely. And it's so comfortable and it's so frustrating at the same time. Dominic hates that he says nothing.) "If you had told me, I would have—"

"Of course you would have, you fucking workaholic." Pietro elbows him with a grin, brushing a kiss that is almost too fast to feel against Dominic's cheek. "But you don't _need_ to, alright? That's the whole point. Look, I can't really get into it all, but important shit is coming down the pipeline this year; Magneto's got a _lot_ of assignments for us." Pietro preens, puffing out his chest. (He never learns.) "I want you around for that. Hell, I couldn't do this without you; you _know_ that. You work harder than anybody on this team. Toad's just here to help take off some of the pressure so you don't fucking kill yourself doing it." Pietro laughs gently, teasing again.

At his choice of words, Dominic's blood drags and thickens and thuds in his arteries, his breath catches and burns and shudders in his lungs. He chokes against the tight, swollen lump pressing on his Adam's apple with a cough. It makes his eyes water. (And Dominic tells himself that the cough is the only thing that does.)

Pietro laughs in earnest and slaps him once, hard, in the middle of his back. "I mean, that's what the cancer-sticks are for, right? Until then, I fully intend to keep you alive and healthy so that you have the option of spending your senior years in an iron lung. Of course, you better start cozying up to Tony Stark now while you still have your looks. Better yet, see if you can swing us a three-way. Shotgun wearing the Iron Man helmet." Pietro lifts his eyebrow and smirks indecently, wedging himself into the crook of Dominic's arm. The position is hot and uncomfortable under the noon sun. (Dominic is uncomfortable [feels sick to his stomach, needs a cigarette and a cup of coffee and a shower, needs to forget what he heard this morning, feels a headache coming on, wants to grab Pietro by the shoulders and shake him until he listens to what Dominic is not saying to him.] _'I fully intend to keep you alive and healthy...'_)

Dominic closes his eyes, locks his molars together, and takes in a slow, deep breath through his nose. "I do not need it anyway, Pie." He keeps his tone light as he presses a kiss into Pietro's hair and pulls him closer. (He will just work harder. It is simple. Pietro doesn't have to know that he has already failed.) Dominic swallows hard. "I have a thick skull, yes?"

And Dominic can feel Pietro shake with laughter against him.

**Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean**

('You know, he's really not so bad if you give him a chance, Dom.') Dominic had hoped it would improve over time. (Three feet away, he watches Mortimer struggle with the topmost bolt on the jet engine cover, grunting in frustration as he tries to loosen it. [He is too short, he is getting no leverage.]) If anything, it's gotten much worse over the eight months. Every time he looks at Mortimer, every single time now, Dominic gets the same sick pit in his stomach, the mix of anger and disgust and shame and fear. "Give me the wrench; you will never get that."

Mortimer startles, flinging the tool as he jumps. It skids beneath the wing. "Avalanche!" He's breathing fast and his eyes dart wildly. (Searching for Pietro or Neena to save him again.) "Uh...you weren't here and I just wanted to take a look and see if I could help or something." He wrings his hands. "Sorry."

Dominic bends down and retrieves the wrench. It is not strictly Mortimer's fault that Dominic hates him. (And Dominic _does_ hate him.) Mortimer serves as a living, breathing, incompetent, skittish little reminder of everything that Dominic doesn't want to think about. Mortimer's position on the Brotherhood and Dominic's CTE has been inextricably linked since his first day. (And the fact that Dominic has still not told Pietro, that Dominic is still far worse a coward than Toynbee.) If Mortimer would just _leave_, if he would just _go_ and Dominic didn't have to look at him (Dominic already avoids talking to him as much as possible), it would be better. Dominic might actually be able to not think about it every waking minute of every day. "_Now_ you wish to help?" Dominic turns the bolt on the first try, slams the wrench back into Mortimer's hands. "Are you certain you are not more comfortable hiding in the plane?" It catches Mortimer hard on the knuckles, so that Dominic feels it vibrate up the handle into his palm.

Mortimer winces and doesn't take the wrench from Dominic. He loosens the bolt the rest of the way with his fingers. "There's nobody out here trying to kill me right now." He laughs softly and bitterly and looks Dominic right in the eye. "Well, fewer people. I don't know if you've noticed but my powers aren't exactly the best when it comes to fighting like...anything." Mortimer tugs the cover free and continues, "Hell, I'd probably screw up and end up spitting slime at one of you guys instead or something. Not that it would really help or hurt either way, I guess." He gives another short, savage laugh. "'I am Toad and I will make you slightly moist. Cower before me.'"

Mortimer is right, he _is_ useless. Dominic helps him lift off the blades with a non-committal grunt. Still, it is the fact that he doesn't even try that irks Dominic the most. (Dominic has been giving _everything_ he has to the team. He pesters Neena relentlessly on their rooftop cigarette breaks to go over the plans again with him ['What, Petrakis, is Maximoff offering up sexual favours for perfect field execution or something? Remind me to be sure I screw something up,'] he makes notes on their missions now ['Fuck, Dom, I know Greek _sounds_ sexy, but when you write it down, it sort of looks like my old algebra homework threw up on a piece of paper,'] he does his best to stay conscious in the field [though sometimes, with the X-men especially, being knocked out is almost unavoidable.] He goes once a month to the neuropsychologist. [Sneaks out, like a criminal, lies to Pietro and the team.] The appointments have not really made any difference as far as Dominic can tell, but he continues with them because he is doing everything he can. [And Mortimer does nothing and still he gets to stay.]) Dominic clenches his fists and pins them against his side, trying to control his temper. He doesn't want to force Pietro to intervene twice in one day. "You should at least _attempt_ to help us."

Mortimer leans his small frame into the engine, so that he disappears from the waist up and his feet leave the ground. "That's what I thought too." His voice echoes metallically. "But Pietro told me if I didn't feel comfortable with something and thought I was going to get hurt, I should sit it out. He said he didn't want to wind up in some hospital in Jersey pretending that I had knocked up Domino and was having sex with him on the side. Which seemed, well, really _specific,_ but you know how Pietro is." Mortimer pulls his head out to look at Dominic guardedly and drops himself easily to the ground. "What am I talking about? Of course you do." Mortimer sounds almost disappointed. (Jealous? Embarrassed? Dominic cannot read him nearly as well as Fred or Pietro or Neena.) "I figured he told you guys that too. I guess he probably didn't have to, huh? You're all actually good at this shit and don't fuck up everything you touch." In that moment, he reminds Dominic entirely too much of Pietro; Toynbee is almost likeable when he is like this. Mortimer stands on his toes, pointing into the engine. "There. On the igniter."

The first thing Dominic did was remove the covers to do a visual inspection of the engines. They had both looked fine; he couldn't see any obvious reason why one was working and the other was not. (It was then he had tried re-securing the blades to see if there was perhaps a problem with the alignment. Had Pietro not pulled him aside, his next plan of action had been to completely tear down the compressor and the turbines.) "Where?" It bothers him that Mortimer has spotted something so quickly.

"Sorry, I forgot it's kind of dark in there. Built-in night vision," he explains, running his fingers self-consciously just above his eyes. "See that thing sticking up that kind of looks like a big spark plug? The clips that hold it down are all cracked and busted." Dominic reaches in and wiggles the part loose easily; he can hear the brittle plastic snap. Mortimer touches it timidly in Dominic's hand but makes no move to actually take it. "I think at least _it's_ still okay, huh?"

"Possibly." And because Mortimer actually seems to know what Dominic is holding, (and because Dominic doesn't want to be at this for another hour by himself while he tries things blindly,) he admits, "I have no idea what this is."

"Oh. Well, that's the igniter..." Mortimer laughs nervously and glances back into the engine. When he is not facing Dominic directly, his voice picks up confidence. "It really does just sort of work like a big spark plug and makes your fuel combust. Under normal conditions, even in ice storms and shit, there are lots of things in place to make sure most of the ice is knocked away before it gets into the engine, and anything that actually does just sort of melts and evaporates off. Which makes sense, right, because it's really hot? So, anyway, you've got your igniter going all the time in bad weather just in case your fuel goes out. But, I mean, you probably don't want it jiggling around because if it actually touches your fuel source, your engine's going to flame out like crazy.

"But, it's an _airplane,_ so there's lots of problems with vibrations and turbulence and shit. That's why there are those clamps to keep it in place, and then this little guy—" Mortimer depresses a small button beneath where the igniter was once positioned, "—is your safety switch. So if the igniter _is_ in danger of coming loose, or it moves around too much, the safety opens up and it automatically shuts the igniter off so everyone doesn't explode. Now, obviously, the engines are supposed to be hot, so everything's built to withstand really high temperatures, and like I said, ice is never usually a problem _inside_ the engine, so the clips aren't really designed to be flash frozen and shit. I think when they went from hot to cold that fast, they broke, and so now they're not pressing the igniter down on the safety to tell it that everything's okay. That's why this engine won't start." Mortimer is looking at Dominic apprehensively. "Probably. I mean, I could be way off."

Dominic rolls the igniter in his hand, frowning at it. "So we need to bypass the safety to the closed position and secure this back in then."

Mortimer breaths out an audible sigh of relief. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking." He actually smiles tentatively at Dominic before hopping back up and half-burying himself again. "Do we have anything other than a monkey wrench?"

"No."

"Oh good, we wouldn't want to make this easy or something." (Dominic almost laughs.) Mortimer pokes his head out. "Can you pass it to me for a sec?" He flinches as Dominic does, twitches his hand just slightly like he expects Dominic to hit him with it again. He looks surprised when Dominic simply presses the handle into his palm. "Oh...uh, thanks."

(Dominic feels like a first class asshole.) "Where did you learn all of this?"

Mortimer glances down, breaking eye contact. "I dunno. I picked it up, I guess? I've always been pretty handy; I used to take apart stuff all the time when I was little just so I could see how it worked. It used to drive my mom nuts." His voice goes quiet. "You could tell she was proud still though. She figured I was going to turn out to be an engineer or some shit. When I was eight or nine I, uh, I wanted to be a fighter pilot; that's why I know so much about planes. I know, I know, it's totally stupid. But when you're younger you don't exactly think that this," and Mortimer waves the wrench broadly, so that Dominic is not entirely certain if he is referring to his mutation in general or the Brotherhood specifically, "is where you're going to end up, you know?"

"Formula One driver," Dominic offers up a little too late, after Mortimer has already plunged his arm into the recesses of the engine.

"Huh?" Mortimer looks at him as though Dominic has lost his mind.

(And perhaps Dominic has; he doesn't know why he's telling Mortimer this.) "That is what I wanted to be when I grew up. Like you said, it is stupid, yes?"

"Oh." Mortimer frowns thoughtfully. "No, it's not. That's actually pretty cool. Can you, uh...?" Dominic understands what he is asking, reaches his own arm around the compressor and pushes on the wrench as Mortimer disengages the safety. "Thanks. Well, at least you got to work with cars and shit before this, right?" When Dominic doesn't respond, (mostly because Dominic is shocked that Mortimer knows this about him; they barely speak outside of missions or team meetings [or the confrontations that Dominic starts]) Mortimer hastily adds. "Is that not..? Fuck, Pietro told me you used to be a mechanic before you joined up with the Brotherhood. I should have known he was just screwing with me. _'Yeah, Mortimer, you should try talking to Dom. He's really not that terrifying and you actually have a lot in common.'_" He exhales scornfully. "I'm such a fucking idiot sometimes." Mortimer is uncoiling the wiring in the switch. He takes a pocket knife from one of the pouches on his belt and severs them with quick, clean cuts.

Dominic feels useless standing there watching Mortimer's long, thin fingers work. (Knows, perhaps, how Mortimer feels when they are on the battle field.) Dominic sighs. "No, that is correct. At one point, I was even a partner at a small garage in Astoria." Dominic thinks of Adelphos and his family. (He saw the birth announcement in the paper; Dominic has a niece he has never met. [Penelope Helen Kritikos. Her middle name was...] Dominic blinks hard. It passes unnoticed by Toynbee.) Mortimer is right; this is not where Dominic thought he would end up, or where Dominic thought he would _want_ to end up. (Or where Dominic was seeing his usefulness slip away with quick efficient twists of wire, Mortimer seemingly matching the colours at random—red to white and purple to orange and yellow to blue and green to grey. Toynbee has a knack for this. And, as he watches him, it occurs to Dominic for the very first time that, given the correct training, Mortimer might actually be able to make a decent replacement for him on the Brotherhood. [Someday. Maybe. If it ever got to the point where Dominic couldn't...And, of course, Mortimer still had a hell of a lot to learn.] But there was obviously potential with him, and for once, it feels more welcome to Dominic than a threat.)

"Cool. I mean, I just sort of mess around, but you've got your papers and everything, huh?" Dominic is surprised at how easy Mortimer is to talk to. (He's surprised at how light his shoulders suddenly feel.) Pietro's eyes always glaze over when Dominic mentions cars; Mortimer seems legitimately interested.

"Somewhere." Dominic pictures the three bankers' boxes he has sitting at the back of his closet, everything from the first twenty-seven years of his life compressed haphazardly into the same amount of space it used to take to store his football equipment. He begins chipping the plastic from the igniter with his fingernails. "I do not know if I could actually find them. It is not as if Pietro demanded to see them before he let me work on the SUV." Though Dominic wouldn't put it past Pietro to do that. He smiles to himself.

"Pfft, I wouldn't put it past Pietro." Mortimer laughs and then immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. "Crap. Sorry, I didn't mean... I know you and Pietro are..."

Dominic chuckles, brushing the last of the broken clamp onto the ice. "I was thinking the same thing."

Mortimer stares at him skeptically, as though he suspects Dominic is maybe setting him up. "You're not going to tell him I said that, are you?"

"No." And Mortimer looks extremely relieved until Dominic adds, "Where is the fun in telling him right away? These are the sorts of things you save up. Very useful for blackmail against one another." Dominic feels his face relax into a smile just as Mortimer's shifts into abject terror. He elbows Mortimer very lightly in the side. "Pay attention, you will need to learn this if you are going to stay with the Brotherhood. When someone says something bad about Quicksilver when he is not around, you store it, yes?" Dominic nudges him again and Mortimer sort of startles before he remembers himself. "Yes?" Dominic prompts.

"Yeah, o-okay." He fits the modified safety into place, holding it down as Dominic retightens the bolt. "Can you pass me the...?"

Dominic is already handing the igniter to Mortimer. "Then you always have the threat of using it later. That is half of the reason we go up onto the roof after meetings. Do you smoke, Mortimer?"

"Sort of? Sometimes. I mean I have before." He frowns, wary.

"You should join us then. Excellent for gossip. The things I have on Neena... She is very good for that; you will need to learn that too. It is easy to get her to rant about Pietro. Of course, I am certain she has just as much about me." Dominic presses the safety down into the closed position without being asked. "She carries a notebook in her utility belt and writes them down on occasion."

"So you don't...actually ever tell Pietro?" Mortimer slides in the igniter as Dominic pulls his fingers back.

"We have worked with Pietro for five years. Neena is on her twelfth notebook." Dominic chuckles. "We do not have the kind of time to catalogue all of Pietro's anal retentiveness back to him."

Mortimer laughs again, not the reedy terrified, half-crazy burst that Dominic is used to, but something genuine and comfortable and even pleasant. "You think he's anal retentive, huh? I'm _so_ saving that one up on you," he cautions hesitatingly, half- cringing until Dominic smiles back.

"See, you are learning already." Dominic swaps with him, pressing down on the top of the igniter as Mortimer secures the entire base with a gob of his mucus.

Mortimer lets go first after several seconds. "Um...I think that should do it. I mean it's not perfect or anything but it should get us home at least."

Dominic is helping Mortimer secure the cover into place when Pietro joins them. "Hey, look at you two: working together, not killing each other." His tone is amused and just a bit patronizing. "Did you finally bond over your mutual love of how amazingly I pull off spandex pants?"

"Um, something like that," Mortimer answers casually.

Dominic returns the sharp, secretive, tentative grin Mortimer shoots him. He spins the wrench in his hand. "That and fixing engines, yes? Toynbee is very knowledgeable."

"Yeah?" Pietro gives Dominic a small, incredulous smile before glancing across the ice with a smirk. The X-Men are still tinkering with their jet, unsuccessful so far in their efforts. "Ooh, who's the stupid one now, Wolverine?" Pietro is smug enough that Dominic could swear he did the work himself. "Good job, Toad. The Brotherhood appreciates your efforts, etcetera, etcetera. Why don't you head back in and get Domino to fire this bad boy up?"

Mortimer looks entirely too elated at Pietro's praise. (Dominic will have to work on that with him. [And also at toughening him up during battle scenarios.] Dominic needs to start making a list.]) He grins enthusiastically, "Yeah, okay, thanks Quicksilver. Uh, Avalanche." He gives Dominic a quick, solemn nod. "I'll, uh, go do that. Now. Yeah."

Pietro watches him hop off and shakes his head. He nudges Dominic. "Seriously, not that it doesn't make my life easier, but which one of you did the X-Men swap with a body double? Or is it mind control?"

Dominic punches him lightly in the shoulder. "Neither. I am a Skrull imposter."

"Oh good," Pietro hits him back with equal force, "for a second there I was worried the real Dominic might have actually realized what I've been trying to tell him is right and Mort's not so bad when you're not busy terrifying the shit out of him."

"Toynbee is tolerable," Dominic admits grudgingly. He smiles wryly. "Of course, I may have to change my opinion if he continues to be thanked on behalf of the Brotherhood when I am not."

"Aww, don't get all jealous. You, I plan to commend very thoroughly and _very_ personally later." Pietro taps his chin meditatively. "Wait, is it considered cheating if I have sex with your alien lookalike?"

"I think that is a grey area, like clones."

"Good to know." Pietro smirks, and then suddenly he's pressed hard against Dominic's front, arms thrown freely around his neck. He drops his voice smooth and low, "Why Skrull-Dom, is that a wrench in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" And then he cackles, commandeering the monkey wrench from Dominic and tapping it lightly against his shoulder. "Dammit, just a wrench."

Dominic rolls his eyes. "Perhaps we should return that to the X-Men?"

"Return what?" Pietro asks innocently, the small gust of air the only indication of his super speed. A splash in the ocean to Dominic's left explains why Pietro's hand is now empty.

"You are awful sometimes." The engine roars to life and drowns out Pietro's response. (Dominic has a feeling he is mouthing the words 'Awfully sexy.') As they make their way around the plane, Pietro curbs his speed to remain in step with Dominic, sliding his palm to rest across the small of his back. Dominic slows to a stop when they are within twenty feet of the door. Pietro regards him with open curiosity. (He doesn't realize they are standing between the two broken halves of Dominic's helmet.) Dominic can do this. (Dominic doesn't have to do this anymore.) "Pie," he begins, for what feels like the hundredth time in eight months.

"Yeah, Dom?" The smile he gives Dominic is genuine and uncomplicated.

"I have been…" Dominic looks down at the ice, at the shattered grey plastic. Perhaps, like Pietro often did, he should have prepared what he wanted to say. Pietro squeezes Dominic's side encouragingly. "You may have noticed that—"

"Hey! Gentlemen!" Neena calls from the open doorway, arms crossed. "I need all _asses_ in seats if we're going to take off. And I don't just mean you, Maximoff." She grins. "You both can't just stand there all day being adora—

"Rule!" Pietro rebukes her. He nudges Dominic, speaks loud enough that Neena can hear him. "Man, Dom, we haven't had a free case of beer in awhile." He smirks. "And free beer, like victory over Thurman, always tastes sweet."

"Half a case," Neena corrects. "Petrakis didn't say anything."

"That's not how it works."

"I think you've forgotten the finer points of 'Rule.'" She makes a face at Pietro, exaggeratedly exasperated. "But if a full case is going to get you out of here faster..."

Pietro throws up his hands, frustration embellished for Neena's benefit. "Alright, alright, we're coming. Keep your fucking pants on."

"Around you, Maximoff? Always." She reclines against the doorframe.

"You can deny it all you want, but someday, you're just going to have to accept that you want me." Neena sticks her finger down her throat. Pietro winks lavishly at her. When he leans closer to Dominic and drops his voice, his expression is apologetic. "I've got to be honest, I'm fucking freezing out here anyway, Dom. Swear to God I'm going to have to _live_ in a hot shower for the next week." He glares in the direction of the X-Men. "Fucking hypocrites—getting off on being all heroic. Like they don't know what their powers can do to a guy. I should've saved the wrench to throw at Iceman." Pietro exhales a harsh laugh, and then seems to remember himself. (To remember Dominic.) He chews on his bottom lip. "Can this wait?"

(Neena is still watching them from the plane. Pietro is rubbing his palms against his arms briskly.) "Yes." Dominic does his best to smile at him, shakes his head dismissively. "It is not important."

"Great." He gives Dominic a quick, firm pat on the shoulder before dashing past Neena into the warmth of the cockpit. "Are we going or what, Thurman?" She rolls her eyes, grins at Dominic, and disappears behind Pietro.

Dominic sighs, quietly, as he squats down to retrieve the remains of his helmet. (His knees crack.) And then he stands, rights himself, squares his shoulders, and follows their lead.

-End-

Just a few closing notes:

This started as a simple fic to try and explain why in episode two Dominic was casting murderous glances at Mortimer in the Jeep, why in episode eight Dominic was obviously upset that Pietro had decided not to boot Mortimer off the team, and why, in every other appearance of the BOEM after that, nobody ever mentions wanting Mortimer gone ever again. While trying to do that, I also noticed that Dominic gets knocked out a whole lot, and then I started to think about the lasting effect of that. Umm...hopefully, in a roundabout, 24054 words kind of way, I have accomplished addressing both of these things.

I also was kind of trying to flesh Dominic out a bit from random gruff foreign guy in WatXM. He's pretty darn awesome in the comics (when written by a good writer...I highly recommend Freedom Force era stuff if you are interested, and the tiny 'Manifest Destiny' Avalanche arc is a nice snapshot of him) :: cue Reading Rainbow music:: He's fiercely loyal and dryly funny and so very steadfast and solid and wonderful. No matter what, he just keeps on keeping on, and I kind of ridiculously respect that.

Mostly, thanks for reading and sticking through with this, especially because this pairing, the Brotherhood, and Dominic specifically are not exactly the most popular in the fandom at large. Thanks for giving it a chance. 3 (And maybe letting me know what you thought? /being a total comment whore...) Seriously though, thanks for reading.


End file.
